IT BEGAN as another boring day at the 11th Congress, then barely a month old. The roll had been called, and the previous session's journal approved. Then a legislator stood up and requested recognition. He had a legislative inquiry. The congressman, a neophyte, wondered how one was marked present or absent in the journal. The session chair's reply was swift and to the point: one had to be physically present to be declared so.

"I've been here for two weeks now, and in those times I've only seen the Speaker of the House twice, three times," said Juan Miguel Zubiri, representative of the third district of Bukidnon. "Where is the Speaker? He's marked present but I don't think he is present."

"I miss him," he said, partly in jest, concluding his remark, and drawing amused chortles from his colleagues.

Of course, the issue of an absentee Speaker is far from laughable. Yet in the whole life of this politics-gaga nation, nobody in the House ever questioned its overlord's truant ways. Not until Zubiri, 31, that is. Seemingly, being young, Zubiri did not know tradition or was not about to blindly acknowledge sacrosanctity at its basest.

Call it impetuosity, youthful braggadocio or plain forthrightness. Zubiri's aside that afternoon has helped somehow re-establish attendance in sessions as a norm in the House of Representatives, regardless of whatever powers every congressman exercised. Even more, his other subsequent observations have called attention to his kind—the crop of young legislators to which the House owes much of its dynamism, vigor and exuberance.

Not too long ago, these were empty metaphors for this other legislative chamber, whose long, historical association with the art of compromise, horse-trading, wheeling and dealing has earned for itself such disparaging tags as "Tongress" and "Lowest House." The reason, in part, being that the House of Representatives had been largely geriatric territory. Since having learned the workings of a bicameral legislative system, this country has not seen the composition of the House become young the way it is today. A fifth of its current 220 members are under 40 years old, born between 1958 and 1970, the equivalent of the so-called Generation X in the United States.

No doubt, this generational shift has lent much to the present youthful visage at the House, for which it has at times been regarded a legislature of preschoolers. But whoever said that obviously had not heard of the "Spice Boys," a clique of six or so thirtysomething neophyte and two-term congressmen that has been carpet bombing the Estrada administration almost on a daily basis.

Alternating among themselves, the Spice Boys have articulated in statements and speeches their views on rice-and-fish issues to even teasing the president that he can be impeached. And it's not just soundbite advocacy—they also have bills and resolutions to show to support their supposed pro-people stance and espousal of progressive politics. Yet doubts about their sincerity remain, partly because of the same reason they have become popular. The conclusion of some: they are too mediagenic to be true. A few have even taken to calling the group "Despised Boys."

The group consists of Rolando Andaya Jr. (1st district, Camarines Sur), Robert Ace Barbers (2nd district, Surigao del Norte), Michael Defensor (3rd district, Quezon City), Hernani Braganza (1st district, Pangasinan), Federico Sandoval II (Navotas-Malabon) and Zubiri. Virtual strangers, they gravitated to each other by force of political circumstance, thrust into the role of the opposition in the House given their party affiliations, whether with Lakas-NUCD or the Liberal Party.

The group's name has been both its boon and bane. To be sure, it was christened with the thought that a comparison with entertainment celebrities would make them hot copy in the media. The obvious allusion is to the British pop phenom Spice Girls, and the piquant label has indeed done much to get these legislators considerable media mileage. People recognize it readily and with generally positive reactions. Somehow, the name has neutralized the public perception of a congressman as a pork-loving trapo. Braganza says ordinary folks tell him, "with approving smiles on their faces, 'Nani, Spice Boy ka pala.'"