my langga and me... hehehe....
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
Old cars... from YOUNGBLOOD of INQUIRER.net
YOUNG BLOOD
Old cars
Old cars
Aside from having a keen interest in the inner workings of the human body, which led me to become a physician, I also have an intense passion for cars. I am not your average twentysomething that lusts after the latest and the fastest exotic car you can find in "Top Gear." I go for old cars from the 1940s or 1950s.
My dream of owning and restoring an old classic car turned to reality when someone finally answered the ad I posted in the Internet: "Looking for old classic American cars from the '40s or '50s, preferably with the original engine and transmission."
The first text message I got said: "1979 Toyota Macho classic car, rare, fully loaded." I didn't know if I should laugh or cry. But after four days, I got the reassurance that someone still knew what the words "classic" and "old" meant, as far as cars were concerned. The message said: "You might be interested in a 1957 Chevy sedan."
I couldn't believe what I read and couldn't wait to see the car. The following day, I told my brother about my rare find (we share the same passion) and off we went to see it. After a minute or two of knocking at the gate, a housemaid approached us. We were led in after we told her we were the guys asking about the car.
Our jaws dropped at the sight of the huge car. It was indeed a 1957 Chevrolet sedan, a Two-Ten to be precise. It shares the same body and looks with any Chevrolet Bel-Air of that era except that it was a different model. We marveled at the car that was as huge and majestic as a ship. It had a two-tone, red and white paint, a curved roof that was almost round like a Volkswagen Beetle's, a windshield that wrapped around the corners to the A-pillars, and, of course, the unmistakable trademark tail fins accentuated by chrome trim. The '57 Chevy is an icon of the 1950s, "the undisputed star of the fabled 'Tri-Five' ('55-'56-'57) Chevy era," as "Automobile Magazine" put it.
As we continued to stare at the car, an elderly lady approached us. She introduced herself as the widow of its owner. We asked her if we could give it a closer look.
The doors opened perfectly. It was like entering a time machine that zapped us back to 1957. The windows could be rolled up and down smoothly. Everything inside was original. I closed the door and it emitted a solid thud. Unbelievable.
The hood had two chrome rocket ornaments on top and we popped it to reveal the original "stove-bolt" 235 cubic-inch (4.0L) straight-six engine. The air cleaner and radiator were original, and so with the single-barrel Rochester carburetor. Perfect.
The lady invited us inside the living room as soon as we were through inspecting the car. We asked if the price she had quoted in her message was fixed. She smiled and said it was. We didn't have the heart to haggle for a discount. After all, it was worth more than what she was asking. We sealed the deal.
Then, it was time to pull out the Chevy. The truck backed up into the driveway and lowered its bed. A heavy chain was tied to the rear axle and attached to the winch's cable. I took the wheel to steer the car into position. Full power was applied to the winch but the car wouldn't budge. Of course, I'd forgotten to shift to neutral.
I tried to get the column-shift to neutral, but the lever was stuck. I crossed my fingers and depressed the clutch and hoped it would work (a broken crankshaft was unimaginable). I heaved a sigh of relief when the car slowly inched its way out to the driveway.
The widow watched as the car was slowly winched onto the truck's bed. Her eyes filled with tears as she touched the Chevy for the last time. We've bought second-hand automobiles before but no separation between automobile and owner were as heartbreaking to witness as this one. Here we were, my brother and I, two young guys taking possession of an old automobile which would soon be our pride and joy, while there was Nana Flor, parting with their first car, a treasure trove of memories.
She handed us a Borg-Warner carburetor repair kit and a complete front suspension repair kit and requested that we take her for a ride when we were done with the restoration. We promised we would and then left.
We reached the mechanic's shop for the first stage of the restoration project: rebuilding the engine. I would have preferred to entrust the task to Uncle Ren, but since he was in the United States, I looked for another mechanic who was up to the job. I wanted someone who knew his way around American cars. With some luck, we found Mang Ed who knows these cars like the back of his hand. When he saw the Chevy, he said he was reminded of his days as a young man.
For the next couple of weeks, he pulled out and disassembled the engine and took the block and crankshaft to the machine shop for a re-bore. I scoured Binondo for pistons, connecting rod bearings, main bearings, valves, gaskets and the like. I was surprised to find out that some shops still had lots of unused spare parts for cars as old as our Chevy.
It has been almost two months since we brought the car to Mang Ed. Now the engine has been rebuilt and assembled, and we had it painted in the original Chevy blue.
My brother and I cannot wait to start the engine. For other people who drive their modern cars on a daily basis, it is as simple as turning the keys. For us, however, it is witnessing the rebirth of a 50-year-old car that had lain dormant for nearly 25 years. On the road to its resurrection, every step counts: pouring engine oil, filling the radiator with coolant, connecting the battery, turning on the ignition switch, cranking the engine as the glass filter bowl fills with fresh gasoline, and finally hearing the long 235-cubic-inch straight six engine sputter to life with a roar as the sparkplugs ignite the air-fuel mixture.
If you are the typical car guy who is thinking about buying another new modern sissy car that is worth a fortune, think again. Would you really like to drive what everyone else has? It's about time you experience restoring and driving an old car, where there's just you, the car and the open road ahead. It's about time you experience the joys of more than four cylinders and raw power without distractions, such as a dozen buttons, electronic gadgetry and hi-tech stuff. If your grandpa or dad has an old car in his garage, now is your chance to restore it and re-live history.
Jean Pierre P. Dadufalza, M.D., 27, is also a microbiologist.
Copyright 2007 Inquirer. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.
Saturday, March 17, 2007
HAPPY ST. PATRICK'S DAY, MARCH 17, 2007
Getting There Take any subway to the Midtown area between 42nd and 86th Street | Walk to 5th Avenue | Do not drive
The first St Patrick's Day parade in New York City was held in 1766 organized by Irish soldiers serving in His Majesty's service. City folk marched for any and all reasons back then, usually organized along fraternal, trade or military organizational lines. The early St Patrick's Day marchers would form up at their parish churches or their organizations' headquarters and march to the Old St Patrick's Cathedral (now at Mott and Prince Streets). The Archbishop greeted the groups, dignitaries and politicians addressed the crowd and the marchers dispersed in search of a bit of St Patty's Day pleasure.
As the City moved uptown so did the parade, marching to the far reaches of the City and the site of the new St Patrick's Cathedral on Fifth Avenue and 50th Street. Today's parade starts at 42nd Street and marchers travel north to 86th Street. It is customary for the New York Archbishop to review the parade in front of St Patrick's.
The St Patrick's Day Parade is one of the few remaining where no cars, floats, buses, trucks or other vehicles are allowed. People march, march, march up Fifth Avenue, led by members of the 165th Infantry (originally the Irish 69th Regiment of Fighting Irish fame). Sponsored by the Ancient Order of Hibernians, the more than 150,000 marchers are members of various Irish societies from New York and around the country; many Eire-based societies make the Atlantic crossing to trek the two miles uptown. Large contingents include the Emerald Societies of the New York City Police and Fire Departments, and any politician running for office within a 50-mile radius.
Viewing the parade is a snap. It starts 11:00A at 42nd Street and makes it way up Fifth Avenue to 86th Street. There is no best place to see the parade, though the Archbishop usually greets the marchers at St Patrick's Cathedral. Take any subway to Midtown and walk over to Fifth Avenue. Don't try to drive; you won't get very far. Similarly, traffic is affected on all streets surrounding the parade route; a bus will get you nowhere fast.
Last year's parade is a tribute to those New York City fire fighters and police officers who gave their lives in the World Trade Center attack. Cardinal Edward M Egan, Archbishop of New York and the grand marshal of the parade, will walk up the parade route, then return to the Archbishop's usual spot, greeting parade marchers in front of St Patrick's Cathedral. At about 11:30P, Cardinal Egan will call for a moment of silence, in remembrance of the 9-11-01 victims.
This year Raymond L. Flynn will be the 2007 New York City Saint Patrick's Day Parade Grand Marshal.
The Parade will be reviewed from the steps of Saint Patrick's Cathedral by His Eminence Cardinal Edward Eagan, Archbishop of New York. It will also be reviewed from the Official Reviewing Stand at 64th Street and 5th Avenue.
The parade marches up 5th Avenue, clan by clan, from 44th to 86th streets starting at 11am on St. Patrick's Day (Saturday, March 17th).
Former Grand Marshal include: 2005 Grand Marshal Denis P. Kelleher, 2004 Grand Marshal Thomas W. Gleason and 2003 James G. O'Connor was the Grand Marshal the year before, and Mayor Bloomberg marched along with nearly 150,000 others proudly wearing the green, as millions gawk along the parade route and watch on TV.
Four year ago marked the 241st New York St. Patrick's Day Parade, the world's largest. Edward Cardinal Egan was the Grand Marshall, and Mayor Bloomberg will marched along with nearly 150,000 others proudly wearing the green, as millions gawk along the parade route and watch on TV.
Several years ago parade was dedicated to the 'Heroes of 9/11, ' including police, fire and all rescue workers. At around midday, the parade will pause for one minute as Cardinal Egan leads participants in a prayer from the reviewing stand at 64th Street and 5th Avenue. It's a reminder that St. Paddy's Day is a religious holiday back in the motherland, even though for New Yorkers it's a chance to party hardy like any good Irishman. There probably isn't a bigger day when green face paint, green food coloring, green nail polish, and green clothes are on display. And there's pure Irish pageantry, of course, led by the 165th Infantry (originally the 69th Regiment of the 1850's). You'll see the Ancient Order of Hibernians, 30 Irish county societies and various Emerald, Irish-language and Irish nationalist societies.
The parade marches up 5th Avenue, clan by clan, from 44th to 86th streets starting at 11am on St. Patrick's Day (Saturday, March 17th). It will probably be televised on NBC.
The first official parade in the City was held in 1766 by Irishmen in a military unit recruited to serve in the American colonies. For the first few years of its existence, the parade was organized by military units until after the war of 1811. At that point in time, Irish fraternal and beneficial societies took over the duties of hosting and sponsoring the event.
Originally, Irish societies joined together at their respective meeting places and moved in a procession toward St. Patrick's Old Cathedral, St. James Church, or one of the many other Roman Catholic churches in the City. However, as the years passed, the size of the parade increased and around the year 1851, as individual societies merged under a single grand marshal, the size of the parade grew sharply.
Each year a unit of soldiers marches at the head of the parade; the Irish 165th Infantry (originally the 69th Regiment of the 1850's) has become the parade's primary escort, and they are followed by the various Irish societies of the city. Some of the other major sponsors and participants in the parade are the Ancient Order of Hibernians, the thirty Irish county societies, and various Emerald, Irish-language, and Irish nationalist societies.
The annual parade down Fifth Avenue to honor the patron saint of Ireland is a New York tradition that dates as far back as 1766. The festivities kick off at 44th Street and Fifth Avenue at 11:00 am on Saturday, March 17th, with bagpipers, high school bands, and the ever-present politicians making their way up Fifth Avenue to 86th Street, where the parade will probably finish around 4:30 or 5:00 pm.
The best viewing spots are toward the north end of the parade route, away from the shopping and work-a-day crowds that throng the sidewalks below 59th Street. Try sitting on the upper steps of the Metropolitan Museum of Art for a great view or catching a close-up view of the marchers where the parade turns east on 86th Street.
The New York Convention & Visitors Bureau says that the St. Patrick's Day Parade is the largest and most famous of the many parades held in the city each year.
Colonial New York City hosted the first official St. Patrick's Day parade in 1762, when Irish immigrants in the British colonial army marched down city streets. In subsequent years Irish fraternal organizations also held processions to St. Patrick's Cathedral. The various groups merged sometime around 1850 to form a single, grand parade.
The parade marches up 5th Avenue, from 44th to 86th streets starting at 11am on St. Patrick's Day (Saturday, March 17th). It will probably be televised on NBC.
‘Bibo kid’ ... from YOUNGBLOOD of INQUIRER.net
YOUNGBLOOD
'Bibo kid'
'Bibo kid'
MANILA, Philippines -- At some point, I thought I had lost it. But every time my colleagues' enthusiasm captures my attention, I feel like the "bibo" [high-vitality, or self-confident] kid from my past would like to make a comeback.
If your blood pressure rises because some two-legged creature keeps you from having an early lunch with endless questions during classes and seminars, you can hit me. If you are tired of seeing the same face in front of the class or on the podium, then you can hit me again. And if you were one of those applicants or neophyte teachers who felt strained by a rainfall of questions and arguments aimed mainly to heighten your anxiety, then you can hit me again and again.
I don't know how everything started or how things changed.
On my first day in school, I silently stood outside the classroom for over an hour despite my teacher's insistent invitation for me to come inside. Meek as a lamb, I stayed near the door, too afraid to enter the room filled with kids who must have gobbled a year's supply of energy. I don't know how I finally managed to move my feet and find a chair inside the room.
In the succeeding days, I rarely found the courage to talk to my seatmates. Playing with my peers seemed like a strange thing for me to do. During recitation, since my teachers always asked me to speak louder, I thought that was a normal occurrence.
I can very well recall the result of my first set of exams in preschool. On a thick green paper, my teacher drew an award and asked the entire class to guess who among us got a perfect score. After shouting the names of almost all my classmates, nobody got the right answer. And when the prize was handed to me, many were surprised to know that I actually existed.
Eventually, evolution caught up with the very timid and soft-spoken school grader who always got the lowest rating for sociability. Gradually, I learned that speaking out was not bad at all since no one got persecuted for exercising one's vocal cords. I realized that I wouldn't be devoured alive if I participated in school activities, that I wouldn't melt down if I presented something in front of the class. Now, I can actually do a lot of things that I never thought I could do when I was still an antisocial mute.
It happened fast. One day, I just woke up to realize that I already belonged to the imaginary Bibo Kids' Club.
Whether I was able to deceive my classmates of my leadership ability or they were fond of making odd choices, I don't know. But in high school, I was consistently elected as class president. I joined various clubs and participated in various school programs and activities. I represented the school in numerous academic competitions: math, science, general information, and even journalism. For every poster and collage-making contest held several times in a year, I led our class in the conceptualization. For the endless plays required in our class, I wrote the script and directed. I also played chess in an inter-school sports fest, designed the batch T-shirt and coordinated the cheering competition during intramurals. When I was in third year, I held the second highest position in both the student council and the student publication. The following year, I edited the campus paper.
And yes, I did a Filipiniana dance number on stage during one of our school activities despite having two left feet. I tried hard not to look like a dancing retardate.
During those younger days, passivity and exhaustion departed from my vocabulary. The pleasure I got from speaking in front of a crowd continued to grow. In fact, while we were preparing for our graduation ceremonies in high school, I told some of the faculty members that I would gladly be their commencement speaker a number of years thence.
In college, I quickly found out that the members of the Bibo Kids' Society were so much more than I expected. Countless times, I opted to be silent. But there were more instances when I felt bothered and restless if I did not raise my hand and recite in class. And just like before, my ego hurt if I did not get the highest scores.
I must have bumped my head somewhere, but one day I just learned there was such a thing as maturity. Even if I wanted to prove something to myself, my towering expectations were already causing me more discontent than fulfillment. I was like a child who never gets satisfied with her toy and continues to yearn for attention.
Slowly, my perspective widened. I devoted more of my time to things in which I found more meaning.
I became active in academic organizations that went beyond the classroom and practiced social responsibility. For three years, I committed a significant amount of my time and effort to the campus publication that served the entire studentry. I joined the liturgical committee of the university parish as a lector during Masses. I still aimed to graduate with Latin honors not only to reward my parents but also because I wanted to make sure I would not find myself jobless.
The road was not easy. I remember nights when I lay in bed in agony because of a severe headache. My eyes would well up in tears. I was probably pushing myself too hard. In those distressing hours, I would hold a small bottle of White Flower in my hand while thinking of what I had done the past years. Then I would think far into the future and consider possibilities. What if I died at that very moment? Have I already served my purpose? I was sure that I was not yet ready to go.
Soon I realized that I was running too fast. I was missing the scenery. I knew very well that I had to spend more time on the activities and with the people I valued most. I had to slow down and put the "bibo" kid in silent mode. "Bibo" kids are not born. Becoming one is a matter of choice.
Now after working in an auditing firm for nearly three years, I have come across hundreds of "bibo kids" -- from clients to colleagues in the workplace. They remind me of a past that never fails to make me smile. The "bibo" kid in me must have died, but the dreams remain.
I dream of being able to leave an indelible mark, but this time it is not by achieving so much. The medals and trophies proudly displayed on the shelf will soon be covered with dust. They will tarnish. They will be forgotten. In the end, what will remain is that which has been instilled in the heart.
Leslie E. Vicente, 23, a certified public accountant, is a senior associate in an auditing firm in Makati City.
Copyright 2007 Inquirer. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.
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