1984 Chevrolet Corvette - I Must Have Cursed the Poor Kid

This 1984 Chevrolet Corvette started showing up recently in the parking lot of the business next to my office in Youngstown, Ohio.

One day I had a few spare minutes, so I wandered over for a closer look and snapped a few photos. Naturally, that was the exact moment the owner of the business—a vinyl graphics manufacturer—stuck his head out the door and asked what I was doing.

The obligatory apologies followed, along with me awkwardly explaining that I worked next door, I was "a car guy" and owned a '91 Corvette convertible. You know how those conversations go.

As it turned out, the Corvette belonged to one of his employees, a 23-year-old graphic designer who had just bought it for around $2,000. Ouch. Hearing that stings when I think about what I paid for mine—but then again, this is an '84.

He introduced us, and the kid looked even younger than 23. He reminded me of myself at that age, always trying to look older. Funny how quickly that changes. Back then I grew a beard to add a few years. Now I occasionally think about shaving it off to lose a few.

He seemed a little nerdy and slightly uncomfortable in his own skin, and I could tell he was struggling talking to him. I didn't have the time to put him at ease hoping like he most likely did that the conversation would end as quickly as possible. 

What I was able to get out of him was that he wasn't a car guy at all. When he was a kid, one of his favorite toys was a C4 Corvette in a similar blue-purple color. So, when this one popped up on Facebook Marketplace, he couldn't resist.

He'd already put new tires on it and replaced the brakes. The air conditioning blew cold-ish, he insisted it "needed a charge." Cosmetically, it's a 10- or 20-footer, with spider-web cracking scattered throughout the paint.

I asked if he knew much about working on its notoriously finicky, problematic Crossfire fuel injection. He laughed sheepishly and admitted he didn't but said it was running just fine. He didn't know anyone who worked on the system either. 

I must have cursed him. 

The next day, the hood was up.

I haven't seen the car since.

1974 Dodge Charger - Cash! No Trades!

I recently found this fairly woebegone 1974 Dodge Charger on Marketplace for sale not far from the Triple Wide. The asking price? $8,000. Cash only. NO TRADES!

Chrysler updated its intermediate B-bodies for the 1971 model year with a similar "fuselage" styling theme it had first introduced on their full-size 1969 C-bodies. I've never been much of a fan of those blocky C-bodies—sorry, the whole fuselage thing has always been lost on me—but there's an undeniable swagger about the fuselage B-bodies, regardless of what the designers called them.

Dodge introduced the Charger in 1966 as an awkward fastback 2+2 with all the charm of a garbage truck—or worse, a 1965-66 Rambler Marlin. Two years later, it redesigned the car and, subjectively, created a legend. Then, in 1971, Dodge pulled off something close to impossible: a sequel that was nearly as good as the 1968-70 cars. Well... if you conveniently forget the original 1966-67 Chargers ever existed.

The problem with those three-year production cycles was that they only lasted three years. Cash-strapped Chrysler couldn't afford to keep redesigning its cars that quickly, so it stretched the 1971 B-body through 1974 before launching an all-new lineup for 1975, including Chrysler's own B-body entry, the Cordoba.

Which brings us to this tired '74 Charger that has clearly seen better days.

For your eight grand, you get a car you can drive home like Fred Flintstone—lookie there, the driver's-side floor pan is rotting out. Fear not, though. The seller is throwing in a replacement floor pan you can simply "drop in." If only it were that simple.

It also needs "minor body work"—and we all know there's no such thing. Everything is included for the lucky buyer to put back together, assuming they're holding $8,000 in cash. The seats are shot, and the headliner needs replacing, although that's included somewhere in the bucket of parts stuffed into the trunk. That pop-up moonroof is after-market. 

The seller proudly notes it's a numbers-matching 318, as if anyone really cares. Chrysler's LA-series 318 was never much of a powerhouse, and by 1974 it had been thoroughly neutered with lower compression and lean carburetor tuning in the name of emissions. The big-blocks were gone by then, and the 318 wasn't even the standard engine—the base powerplant was Chrysler's venerable 225-cubic-inch Slant Six.

Fuselage Charger fans will notice another curiosity: someone installed the hideaway headlights from a 1971-72 Charger. The seller says the headlight motor is included, but doesn't say whether it's installed or if the doors actually work. My guess is they don't. Not that it matters much—the headlights will shine through the grille slots anyway.

This comes with a clean Ohio title, and there's a brand-new vinyl top in the trunk as well. How hard could that be to install like it came fresh from the factory? 

Like most old cars here in Northern Ohio, where we spend nine months a year bathing our vehicles in salty brine, the rust is what scares me most. I bite my tongue before calling old cars like this "junky," but this one is pushing my limits. Especially at $8,000. Cash. And remember... no trades.

My guess? Somebody bought this Charger thinking it would be an easy restoration, then quickly discovered they were in way over their head.

I think we've all been there once or twice. Or ten times.

1979 Lincoln Continental Town Coupe - The Aesthetics Don't Justify the Compromise

Having said everything I needed to when I recently blogged about that 1979 Lincoln Continental Town Car, I wasn't planning to write about this 1979 Town Coupe that popped up in my Facebook feed the other day. But with just 12,000 miles showing on its 47-year-old analog odometer—and the fact that it's a two-door—how could I resist?

The asking price is $25,000. That's serious money for a seriously big car. In fact, this was the biggest car Lincoln ever sold and the largest domestic automobile you could buy in 1979.

It's so enormous that it actually dwarfs today's largest Lincoln, the Navigator L, by a full foot. Even Cadillac's longest Escalade comes up about five inches short.

Lincoln sold roughly 16,000 Town Coupes in 1979, compared to about 77,000 four-door Town Cars. They also moved more than 75,000 Continental Mark V coupes that year, which, in my opinion, were far more attractive. As absurd as full-size two-door cars are, the Mark V somehow made the concept make a lot more sense.

 

If that makes any sense.

Then again, I'm a two-door guy. If you're not, there's really no explaining it. It's one of those things you either get, or you don't.

Even for me, though, these later Town Coupes, which are technically pronounced "Town Coo-pay", are difficult to embrace. With their ultra-formal roofline and slab-sided styling shared with the Town Car, Lincoln did little more than remove two doors. The result was essentially a two-door sedan—a car that seemed to exist simply because it could. Well, Cadillac and Chrysler had a two-door flagship so why not. Thing is, the Cadillac Coupe deVille and Chrysler New Yorker Brougham two-doors had a rakishness these do not. 

I'm more than willing to accept the inherent impracticality of a two-door, but the styling has to justify the compromise.

When Lincoln introduced this generation in 1970, the two-door Continental had a semi-rakish look that suggested it was something more than a four-door with fewer doors. It had a distinctive edge—subtle, but enough to make it feel a little dangerous and foreboding. It was the car for the well-heeled buyer who wanted something understated and imposing rather than the flamboyant, hump-backed Continental Mark.

As the 1970s wore on, however, Lincoln was forced to update the Continental. The federally mandated front impact bumper arrived in 1973, along with an awkward front-end facelift. The equally mandated rear bumper followed in 1974. Then came the 1975 redesign, which formalized the styling even further. Massive blade-like front fenders somehow made these already gigantic cars appear even larger. More significantly, the hardtop body style disappeared after 1974, leaving every coupe with a thick, formal roofline.

For 1977, Lincoln borrowed the Mark V's Rolls-Royce-esque waterfall grille. It probably looked like a good idea at the time, but it's a styling cue that hasn't aged particularly well. Today, it gives these cars an almost comic-book, cartoonish appearance.

I've always found it curious that Lincoln waited until 1980 to introduce the downsized Panther-platform Continental and Mark VI; the Ford Motor Company had downsized the Ford LTD and Mercury Marquis for model year 1979. 

Then again, considering how well these land yachts continued to sell—helped in no small part by GM downsizing its full-size cars for 1977—it's easy to understand why Lincoln delayed.

There was also legitimate concern that the dramatically smaller 1980 models, despite being objectively better automobiles in almost every measurable way, wouldn't resonate with traditional Lincoln buyers.

Considering sales fell by roughly two-thirds year over year, those concerns appear to have been justified.

Don't Throw Cat Litter in Your Toilet - Not Even Once

Recently I succumbed to temptation—or stupidity. More accurately, a healthy combination of both. I dumped clumping cat litter into our basement toilet.

I'd temporarily moved our cat's litter box from the basement storage room into the basement bathroom. One evening, while scooping it out, I decided that instead of using one of our increasingly scarce plastic grocery bags, I'd toss a single clump into the toilet and flush it. I swear the clump was no bigger than half the palm of my hand.

I knew instantly I'd made a mistake.

The toilet didn't flush. Instead, the bowl filled to the brim.

"Well... that's not good," I muttered as I reached for the plunger.

Half a dozen plunges later, the water had gone down only slightly. More plunging, more splashing, and eventually it receded to about its normal resting level. Thinking the flush itself might push the clog through, I tried again.

Nope.

The bowl filled again, this time stopping just shy of overflowing.

At that point my wife asked, "Did you throw cat litter in the toilet?"

Busted.

I turned to YouTube and quickly discovered I wasn't alone. Apparently plenty of people have made the exact same mistake. The most common advice was to pour hot—but not boiling—water into the bowl to soften the clumped litter. Boiling water could crack the toilet. Best not to make a bad situation even worse. 

After six or seven buckets of hot water, the toilet finally flushed.

Sort of.

The bowl emptied, but it ended with a suspicious glug... glug... glug instead of its usual confident whoosh. I optimistically declared victory.

"I think we're good."

The next morning proved otherwise.

The first flush backed the toilet up almost to the rim again. By the time I left for work, the water had slowly drained away, so I convinced myself the clog had finally worked loose. I poured in another bucket of hot water and flushed.

Same result.

I closed the lid and decided Future Me could deal with it.

Out of sight, out of mind.

Two or three days later I tried again.

Still clogged.

Twenty... maybe thirty plunges accomplished absolutely nothing. More buckets of hot water? Also, nothing.

Honestly, I shouldn't have been surprised. This clumping litter bonds to the bottom of the litter box like concrete. Why did I think it would magically dissolve inside a toilet?

I figured I had three options.

First, call a plumber.

No thanks. That's expensive, and I was convinced this was something I could fix myself.

Second, buy a toilet auger.

Also no. They're not cheap, and this was hopefully a one-time disaster. Besides, returning a plumbing tool after you've used it feels... wrong.

That left option three: pull the toilet.

The hardest part wasn't removing it—it was getting all the water out first. Two shop-vac loads later I noticed the tank kept slowly refilling because the shutoff valve wasn't shutting off completely.

Lovely.

I shut off the water to the house and opened the sink faucets to drain the plumbing. Unfortunately, the toilet's supply line sat lower than the sinks, so about a gallon of perfectly clean water emptied itself onto the linoleum before everything finally stopped.

After repairing the leaky valve cartridge, I turned the water back on—with the toilet valve still closed—vacuumed out the remaining water, removed the tank, and finally lifted the bowl.

I tipped it over expecting to find a giant wad of cat litter.

Nothing.

Great.

Next,  I poured a bucket of hot water into the floor drain. It disappeared without backing up.

Whew.

That meant the house drain was fine. The clog had to be inside the toilet itself.

I carried the bowl outside and set it down on a, no pun intended, wooden stool with the drain hole exposed. 

I filled the bowl with water from the garden hose, then dumped a bucket of water into it. Instead of flowing freely, it backed up exactly as it had for the past week.

Aha.

The clog was definitely inside the toilet.

I shoved the garden hose into the bowl and turned it on full blast.

Nothing.

I flipped the bowl over and blasted water from the other direction.

Still nothing, except a lot of water spraying back at me.

Running out of ideas, I straightened a wire coat hanger and fed it into the outlet on the bottom. About six inches in, I hit something solid.

Progress.

After ten or so determined jabs, I pulled the hanger back out.

It was coated with cat litter that had transformed into something resembling soft concrete.

Seriously, what is this stuff made of?

More poking.

More blasting with the hose.

Then suddenly...

Splash.

A satisfying rush of water shot through the toilet, followed by a surprisingly large chunk of gray litter that was easily twice the size of what I'd originally flushed. Apparently that tiny clump had grown into its own geological formation.

I stood there soaked in sweat, hose and toilet water, staring at the innocent-looking pile of gray sludge while silently questioning my life choices.

After thoroughly cleaning and sanitizing the bowl, I carried it back inside, reinstalled everything, and gave it the moment of truth.

It flushed perfectly.

The same powerful flush that had convinced me, in a moment of spectacular overconfidence, that it could handle anything.

It couldn't.

Lesson learned.

Never flush clumping cat litter.

Not even once.

1983 Oldsmobile 98 - Bruh, it's An Oldsmobile 98

This 45,000-mile, 1983 Oldsmobile 98 Regency came up recently on Marketplace for sale over in Cleveland. Poster of the ad claims they "brought it up" from North Carolina last year and it's rust free. That's saying something given its a forty-three-year-old General Motors anything. Especially up here where we marinate our vehicles in a salty-brine nine-months out of the year. Asking price is $12,000. Wow. This worth that? 

Hard to figure. Some online pricing tools and A.I. say it's fairly priced if on the higher end of the price range; NADA value pegs this at around $3,500. Quite the spread. The problem with online pricing for cars like this is that condition and rarity get confused with desirability. A 45,000-mile, rust free Regency is rare, that doesn't automatically make it valuable. 

For my twelve-grand, this better be pretty close to perfect and this thing is not. Appears to be in good condition but the asking price is pie-in-the-sky. Twelve thousand? Bruh, it's a 1983 Olds 98 for crying out loud. 

I bet the poster of the ad paid $3,500 to "bring it up here" and they're attempting to not only recoup what they put into it and fixing to turn a tidy profit too. Can't blame them for that. You may want to examine the head of someone who'd pay anywhere near the asking price for this, though. 

They've had the transmission rebuilt which begs the question if they bought it like that; that's a good $3,000 repair. New carburetor's been installed too and they're throwing in the original Rochester "Quadrajet", four-barrel carb with it.  They "upgraded" the speakers and swapped the GM Delco radio out for a blue tooth unit; I wish they hadn't done that but the unit they put in isn't the most offensive looking thing. Air blows cold they say but the cruise control doesn't work and the passenger seat apparently has some tears in it. You can't see in the photos they posted. 

Twelve thousand? At least it's a hoity-toity, "Regency". 

Back in the olden days, an Oldsmobile 98 was literally and figuratively a big deal. A bargain-basement Cadillac, the "Regency" was the top-of-the-line, top-of-the-line Oldsmobile.  Oldsmobile introduced the Regency package with its signature pillow-top seats in 1972 to commemorate their 75th-anniversay. They sold so well they kept it around through the end of "Ninety-Eight" production in 1996. Oldsmobile went from designating these cars from "98" to "Ninety-Eight" in 1991. Talk about rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic. 

Literal big car lover I was back in the day, I test drove one of these around 1986 or 1987. It failed to impress me in any way and left me feeling confused; why was it not the transcendental experience I thought it would be? 

You know, like the first time you drive a Mercedes-Benz or BMW. You're like, "oh, I get it. This is what they're talking about".  The bigger question is, the hell did I ever see in these things in the first place? It didn't handle well, the pillow top seats were uncomfortable, and it was very underpowered. 

The famous ad wizard Jim Wangers is credited with saying, "You can sell a young man's car to an old man but you can't sell an old man's car to a young man." That may or may not be true. Who knows. What I do know for sure is that I've gotten older, my taste in cars has gotten younger. 

2006 Chevrolet Monte Carlo SS - The Last Monte Carlo

It's been three years since I parted ways with my beloved—but long-in-the-tooth, rusty, semi-trusty—2002 Dale Earnhardt Chevrolet Monte Carlo SS. Sigh.

Funny, I loved "The Dale" despite everything that was wrong with it, much to the horror of NASCAR fans. Rust had finally gotten the best of "him", but it was time to move on anyway after owning five GM W-body coupes dating back to 1990. Even this very cherry 2006 Monte Carlo SS with just 48,000 miles can't sway me. There are several reasons why, not the least of which is its nearly $20,000 asking price.

Chevrolet introduced this generation of Monte Carlo for 2000 and gave it a substantial update for the 2006 model year. Changes included a stiffer body structure, revised front sheet metal, a redesigned interior, and, most importantly, a completely new lineup of engines.

Gone were the old 60-degree 3.4-liter and 90-degree 3.8-liter V-6s, replaced by the newer 60-degree 3.5- and 3.9-liter V-6s. Most importantly—he lowers his voice—SS models received the 303-horsepower LS4 5.3-liter V-8.

The LS4 was essentially a Frankenstein version of GM's LS V-8, modified for front-wheel-drive duty. Pontiac also used it in the 2005-2008 Grand Prix GXP, Buick offered it in the 2008-2009 LaCrosse Super, and, last and least, Chevrolet stuffed it into the 2006-2009 Impala SS.

If the LS4 has an Achilles' heel, it's Active Fuel Management, which constantly switches between four- and eight-cylinder operation under varying loads to save fuel. It's a great idea in theory, but in practice it's a somewhat thumpy, stumbly system that detracts from the driving experience.

You can disable it, but none of the solutions are especially simple. You can plug an OBD-II disabler into the diagnostic port, though that may trigger the check-engine light. You can have the ECU custom tuned—good luck finding someone willing to do that these days—or you can perform a full mechanical delete. Either way, it's hardly a Sunday afternoon garage project.

You'd think I'd be all about having 303 horsepower under my right foot, and to a point, you'd be right. But my experience with powerful cars is that you quickly become accustomed to the acceleration and start taking it for granted. Worse, you rarely use all that power because gasoline and tires aren't getting any cheaper.

A car that handles well, on the other hand, rewards its driver every time it's driven.

Sadly, these Monte Carlo SSs are not handlers.

They certainly look like they should carve up canyon roads, and they can hustle along at a respectable pace, but not in a way that leaves you grinning afterward. Even with the vaunted FE3 sport suspension, you never really feel connected to the car, let alone the road. They bob and float in ways that are surprisingly reminiscent of a 1970s Monte Carlo.

Ironically, "The Dale" had a more planted, grounded feel than these overpowered posers. That's one of the reasons I loved, err, "him" as much as I did.

Of all the cars GM fitted with the LS4, the only one I ever thought was truly worth the effort was the Pontiac Grand Prix GXP. Thanks to its staggered front tires and substantially thicker anti-roll bars, the GXP is genuinely entertaining to drive.

And if you're going to cram a V-8 producing 323 lb-ft of torque into a front-wheel-drive platform that was never designed for it, you might as well finish the job.

My problem with the GXP—and I've come close to buying one more than once—is that I just can't do no four-door sedan as my daily driver. This hillbilly's gots standards. 

You could transform this Monte Carlo into something much closer to a Grand Prix GXP by fitting the wider front tires and swapping in the GXP's significantly thicker anti-roll bars front and rear. While you're at it, have the ECU retuned to eliminate Active Fuel Management.

But after all that, you're looking at spending well north of the already steep $20,000 asking price...

...for a twenty-year-old car.

He swallows hard.