The mayor did not hesitate; neither did she mince words. She gave the police a tongue-lashing, and ordered them to stop the demolition. She turned on the residents, and demanded they drop their weapons. This was the daughter of the notorious former mayor of Davao, the man marked as the “Punisher,” whose alleged Davao Death Squads had bled out the rabble from the populace and restored order to his fiefdom. It was the female Duterte who by the authority of her voice alone had angry residents literally at her feet, who demanded that the police behave according to procedure. And after she successfully brought about order, it was Duterte, new hero of Davao, her father’s daughter, who called for the sheriff and shot off four blows, one-two, one-two, against the man’s surprised face.

That Sara Duterte had found it fit to assault a constituent, in the presence of national media, is a commentary on the state of national morality. I use the word loosely, as morality in this country carries the uncomfortable image of Catholic priests howling excommunication at progressives who believe a woman’s uterus is her own. By morality I mean the basics of law and order, the questions of right and wrong taught to a society unwilling to live by the law of the gun. You do not steal. You do not kill. You do not take a van of journalists with the intent to bury them on a hill in Sitio Masalay, Ampatuan, Maguindanao. You do not beat your wife and say it is your right, you do not rape your daughter or murder your brother, you do not, for example, use your authority to call an unsuspecting man into your presence and use your fists to make a point—especially since the man has been properly cowed by your authority.

The Duterte incident is not a matter of local authority, as Sara and the citizens of Davao claim. It is a matter of national concern when a public official believes that she has the right to take out a metaphorical gun and punish somebody without the benefit of court or counsel. Sara Duterte’s assault was not an instance when a champion stands between right and wrong. It was an instance when an insulted ego finds itself unable to lash out. She said it herself. She was angry at the sheriff for dismissing her authority. She had asked for only two hours.

The danger is not limited to the rift Duterte has created between already tense groups.  Duterte, in spite of her new role as savior of the people, herself supported the demolition, and was angry only because enforcement occurred without her presence. The residents worship her now, but they are residents who will still have to be evicted, the courts will still have to enforce, and the incident only increases the probability that blood will be shed on the day that happens. If another sheriff walks in, armed with the proper papers, who unlike Andres has the unequivocal backing of a judge, fists will fly, and it won’t just be one cop in the hospital with an arrow through his leg.

The reason power without limitation is dangerous is because no man is infallible, wherever his heart is. In 1972, another man claimed that authority. His name was Ferdinand Marcos

“I don’t care,” Duterte told media, saying that if she were cited for contempt, the local judiciary would find itself penniless.

“Say goodbye to your budget. You asked for additional fund? My God, I am having difficulty with the budget. They will cite me for contempt? I will also cite them for contempt. Starting tomorrow, no more gasoline for them, no allowance, no job order!”

It begins with this, and continues with her father’s declaration that if positions were reversed, he would have taken a gun to whoever threw the first punch. That Duterte fought for the right side does not matter, the same way Maj. Gen. Jovito Palparan’s claim his butchery of Central Luzon was a campaign for the security of the Filipino people. And yet the progressives, those who know better, those who have counted the bodies and watched the mothers weep, say this is all right. BagongAlyansangMakabayan-National Capital Region (Bayan-NCR) said in a statement that Duterte’s assault was a “rare showcase” of a local official showing concern for her constituents at her expense—forgetting that Andres himself was a constituent with rights. Neither does it help the legal profession when the National Union of People’s Lawyers (NUPL) offers its support to an erring colleague who has, for all intents and purposes, put herself above the law. Duterte, the group said, stood for the rights of the “poor and powerless.”

“While we must of course follow the ‘rule of law’, this is subsidiary to social and compassionate justice, equity and humanitarian considerations,” NUPL secretary general Edre Olalia said.

Assault is not humanitarian, it is assault no matter who throws the punch. And yet the divide in national sympathy may not have occurred if Duterte were a man who punched a woman, or if Duterte herself had punched a mother who ignored her authority by refusing to be evicted.

It is rare that situations are this clear-cut. It is not, as Etta Rosales of the Commission on Human Rights says, a moment with “traces of human rights violations.” Neither is it reasonable for Local Government Secretary Jesse Robredo to say he “understands” Duterte. What is necessary is for the government to demand both apology and restitution, to draw its own line two years after another government allowed a yellow backhoe to rip through it. It is a case when democracy fell before one woman’s temper. Now Rody Duterte defends his daughter, and says he would have done worse. Now Sarah Duterte counts her crowd of supporters, and refuses to apologize.

This is the story. Sara Duterte was insulted. She swung out her fist, and beat up the man who made the mistake of insulting Rudy Duterte’s daughter. All over the country, other men are making other mistakes, and Sara Duterte says this is what should be done.

Cue the credits. The villain is laughing. The hero is dead.

In a decision penned with commissioners Elias Yusoph, Armando Velasco and Lucenito Tagle, Commission on Elections Commissioner Ferrer proclaimed multimillionaire Juan Miguel “Mikey” Macapagal Arroyo, son of former President Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo, the legitimate representative of the nation’s security guards and tricycle drivers. Ferrer, Yusoph and Tagle make up the same holy trinity that replaced the Constitution with the fire-and-brimstone rantings of a Pennsylvanian Baptist preacher from an online website when they justified banning gay representatives from government.

In the learned opinion of Ferrer and his colleagues, party-list group Ang Ladlad did not belong in government on “moral grounds,” because “practicing homosexuals are a threat to the youth.”

These gentlemen, with the addition of Velasco who suddenly reversed his opinion, are the “gallant commissioners” that Mikey Arroyo thanks, “who, despite pressures from our critics, upheld the will of the people who voted and put their trust in Ang Galing Pinoy and its nominees particularly this representation knowing fully well I am its first nominee.”

Late last year, then Presidential Spokesman Gary Olivar defended Mikey Arroyo’s nomination, saying that a nominee does not necessarily have to be in the same line of work as his party-list minority. Olivar said that what is vital is that the representative possesses skills enabling him to perform effectively in Congress. This is the same logic Ferrer and his colleagues employ, an assumption that anyone can represent anyone, for as long as he has a college degree, and, hopefully, a name that includes “Macapagal Arroyo.”

Mikey Arroyo—who at no time before the election season manifested any sort of public interest in the hand-to-mouth existence of tricycle drivers and security guards—has passed the standards of the Comelec with flying colors. That the nation’s largest security guards’ organization, the Philippine Association of Detective and Protection Agency Operations Inc. (Padpao), does not recognize Arroyo does not seem relevant to the Comelec. Arroyo, says Ferrer, was able to show proof that he has been a member of Ang Galing Pinoy since December 2009, and that he advocates for the rights of its members.

What is important, says Ferrer, is that a person truly understands the advocacy of the party-list group he is representing.

It is difficult to imagine what sort of proof the son of former President Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo can show to prove he “truly understands” the plight of a security guard on minimum wage working a 12-hour night shift and providing for a family of six, or of the security guard’s family whose breadwinner was gunned down in one of the bloodiest robberies in Cabuyao, Laguna. It is possible the former action star presented his Regal Films’ acting stint starring opposite the sexy Katrina Halili, where he played personal bodyguard and driver “Eric” to the voluptuous “Raven.”

This is where Ferrer manifests his bigotry at his patronizing best. In an interview on ABS-CBN’s morning show, “Umagang Kay Ganda,” the Knight of Columbus said he does not think a tricycle driver or anyone from the country’s marginalized sectors is capable of drafting laws.

The party-list law is founded on the single principle that men are equal, but power is not. It offers the marginalized citizen the opportunity to represent himself and his people in government. Education does not matter. Experience does not matter. Income, family, dirt under the fingernails, none of these matter, for as long as a man stands for those forced into edges of democracy. It is why it is offensive that the millionaires of this country have bought their way into their congressional seats by stomping on the shoulders of those they are supposed to protect.

A minority is not about numbers; it is about power, and the lack of it. Women are minorities, and are represented by women who understand what it can mean to be held down weeping on a bed by a sweating man with a hard-on and told to spread her legs. The elderly are minorities, represented by the men and women who are turned away by government welfare and cheated out of benefits. Under Republic Act 7941, farmers, urban poor, fishermen, the indigenous, the youth are minorities, because unlike the Ateneo-educated, four-car-owning, Forbes-residing members of the Filipino elite who occupy congressional seats, they have no voices, no power, no pull with presidential mommies.

“Can you imagine a tricycle driver being able to draft a law?” Ferrer said.

It is this, more than anything, which demands the impeachment of men like Nicodemo Ferrer from the Comelec. There are bigots and jackasses in this country. There are men who believe marital rape and battery are rights and that women have none. There are still men who fire gay men for being gay and corporations who have left farmers barefoot and desperate. That these people exist is another function of growing democracy. But for a commissioner of the Comelec tasked to protect a system for the empowerment of minorities to believe a minority is too stupid, too uneducated, too much unlike the Mikeys of this country to sit in Congress is an offense against democracy. It is as ridiculous as putting a fascist at the head of the United Nations, Jovito Palparan as chairman of the Commission on Human Rights. This decision, and the men behind it, further discriminate every security guard who stands in front of a coffee shop, compelled to clear tables and wipe down chairs, and every tricycle driver stopped by a policeman out for cigarette money. Ferrer and his colleagues put their faith in Mikey Arroyo, because he is one of them.

In the Church of Nicodemo Ferrer, God is a bigot, and his name is Nicodemo.

Understand that this is written under the influence, only that the influences contradict, particularly the alcohol and the bottles of energy drinks and the opinion of this nation’s last living hippie. My ponytailed mentor now mourns the murder by political intrigue of his Pollyanna, shakes his head over the loss of one more writer into the convenient pit of casual cynicism. In the bar where we sat with drunken poets on a Friday night, the smoke stung the eye, the singer crooned of love blowing in the wind, and the scotch-swilling captain with the LeBron James obsession demanded lightness. Write of raindrops, he said, and roses. Write about friendship and football and fried chicken wings. Write light as a feather, write happy, write like you’re sixteen.

It is difficult to be told to write lightly when your consciousness is dependent on a haze of Anhydrous Caffeine and Sodium Benzoate and Aminoethyl Sulfonic Acid, that and the fact you have no idea what lightness now involves. Senator Miriam Santiago sues an airline for the moral damages of waiting, the weather bureau blames a storm for behaving like a storm, a female toady to the corrupt (she of the electric blue and leopard print scarves) now claims to be the most eligible official to punish thieves and scoundrels, and a preacher’s son has been told by the high court that being young at heart does not quite cut it when it comes to representing the hope of the nation in the lower house.

That all these have taken on the grapey stain of Kool-aid purple farce may be of interest to those of us whose lives are tied to the odd workings of the state, but that is not the point of this column. That there is no point is beside the question, the point is only not to make that point.

I ask forgiveness from those who have read this far and expected depth – it is a baseless expectation, and one that needs correction. I am, after all, a girl in her early twenties with a leather fixation, who includes among concerns of firewires and monitors and wi-fi routers the vital question of where to put a piercing the bosses will not notice. Pretending maturity is a difficult undertaking, especially when you make quiet deals with fairies and turn around three times to keep bad luck away, when you believe, reality and history notwithstanding, that Prince Charming will eventually come rampaging into your story on a souped-up Harley to pound at your door, and when you hope, against all reason, that Triumph lingerie will someday reverse itself to end its discrimination against the smaller end of the cup-size continuum.

And so to lightness. This column is in pajamas, checkered and blue with yellow bunny rabbits. This column gets haircuts from ex-boxers; this column wears four-inch heels. This column can survive crashes into steel poles with only minimum damage to the pole. This column sings in the rain. This column will subsidize condoms if the universe will subsidize its life.

This column can see stars out of the balcony and occasionally has hot water in the shower. This column has seen both John Lloyd Cruz and the Duke of Buckingham, and will trade the Duke’s handshake for a photo with Lloydie. This column believes plagiarism is relative, and that anonymity has no balls. This column is about Dear Darla pizza and cans of Sprite Zero and taking pictures of the fat white moon while waiting for the truth to appear on the inside of a napkin ring. This column will trade cows for magic beans and will assassinate ellipses wherever they hide. This column raises a toast, to a barefoot brown gypsy with a painted butterfly on her ankle and a smile so sweet that kittens and writers and the odd dreadlocked diver all fall a little in love.

This column is in revolution. This column will tattoo the letter “s.” This column will buy the cheapest of cheap knee-high boots and will take a bikini to Hawaii. This column is glad to see a mayor in Manila and a rebel dispensing justice. This column will give yellow a chance. This column has hope. This column believes in sacrifice and citizenship, but protests that Ricky Carandang is just too much to give up in the name of patriotism.

This column will ignore the half-naked filmmaker, who justifies arriving late with the announcement that he comes from the future. This column is about words, and language, and the swirl of sentences, about boys who wait outside locked bathrooms with glasses of water, about lost girls and the people who look for them, about gentlemen called Madame and fathers who send pink Valentine roses to their daughters.

This column will lose its temper and find it at six in the evening in the freezer with the last hot fudge sundae. This column will wait for the Irish postcard. This column will go to Book Sale; this column is lucky; this column is tipsy; this column believes, this column will buy pepper spray in defense against egos that go ping in the night.

In a universe of many columns, this column is glad to be a part. This column will be happy; it will revolt against itself. It will slick on red lipstick, step into high heels, toss politics out the window, and stare at Spanish ass on a borrowed TV.

This is this column’s one truth: the only way to live is to live alive. This column may not be a column today, but right now, this column is mine.

His name is Raymond Manalo, and he was a farmer. The armed men took him on Valentine’s Day. He was also 21. They said he was a communist. They beat him with chains and planks; poured his own piss down his nose, stuffed him into a four-by-one foot cell with three other men. When he escaped, he talked about the man in the next cell, who lost his mind and hanged himself with the garter from his underwear.

His name is Jonas Burgos, and his father was a hero. He was disappeared at three in the afternoon of April 28, 2007. His mother traced the license plate of the getaway vehicle to the Army’s 56th Infantry Battalion headquarters. Every year, Jonas’ sister greets him over the radio on his birthday. His mother is still looking for him, she says this government will not break her family.

Her name is Cecille Lechonsito, and she was home for the holidays from working in the Middle East. She had daughters she had not seen for two years, and a husband she was accompanying to a hospital for a check-up. They were driving a red Toyota Vios. Two days later, the car was found buried in the foothills of a small town called Ampatuan.

His name is Nestor Bedolido, and he was a reporter for a weekly paper in Davao del Sur. He was buying cigarettes at a street corner when a man shot him, walked to a nearby motorcycle, and rode away. Bedolido was rushed to a hospital, but he was dead on arrival.

His name is Suwaid Upham, and he said he was a murderer. He asked to be called “Jesse” when news channel Al Jazeera first interviewed him, when private prosecutor Harry Roque announced he had a new witness to the massacre whose 57 victims included Cecille Lechonsito. The man called Jesse was shot dead in Parang, Maguindanao last June 14.

Upham was the first witness to admit participation in the massacre. He named six others, including Datu Unsay Andal Ampatuan Jr., the pudgy man who laughed in court while prosecutors rolled video of the massacre’s aftermath. Upham said he feared for his life because the Ampatuans had been killing off all possible witnesses, and because he had heard the orders for his execution. When he ran, it was with the hope he could offer his testimony and be included in the Department of Justice witness protection program.

On the first of March, Upham was flown to Manila by Roque and his associates, three days earlier than planned at the behest of the DOJ. The meeting with a DOJ high official was set for 3 p.m., and was to be held at the office of Commission on Human Rights Chair Leila de Lima.

According to Romel Bagares of CenterLaw Philippines, who had been arranging the meetings, the DOJ official cancelled. He said he had an emergency. According to Assistant Chief State Prosecutor Richard Fadullon, it was Roque’s group who changed the venue and schedule. A second meeting was arranged, Bagares admitted to changing the time, because Jesse suddenly had to be moved to another safehouse. The DOJ demanded that the meeting be held in their offices.

It was Upham who refused to be interviewed at the DOJ premises. He believed that there were members of the department who had been abetting the Ampatuans.

According to staff of the Witness Protection Program, Jesse “has been saying that DOJ officials were in cahoots with the Ampatuans, so why then would the WPP offer to take him in? There was lack of faith on his part, that’s all. He should have sought protection from other authorities that he believed he could count on.”

According to CenterLaw Philippines, the DOJ refused to discuss a second meeting. Upham left Roque’s protection for Maguindanao, after saying he was unhappy with the DOJ. He said he felt he would be safer there. He was wrong.

Acting Justice Secretary Alberto Agra, the man who had initially absolved two of the principal accused in the case and later revised his resolution after a storm of public outrage, is fighting a pitched battle for blame against Roque.

“I am taking this personally. I’m piqued because he is attacking the department,” said Agra.

It is true that it is difficult to comprehend what logic Harry Roque and his people were using to allow a man they believed to be a valuable witness under threat of his life to return to the Ampatuans’ Maguindanao, a witness that Roque himself pushed to the national media and made a possible target. Roque says that they were running out of resources, that they had assurances from Upham’s relatives that he would be safe, that they had no mandate to keep Upham against his will. It is also difficult to comprehend why Roque and his people failed to inform Human Rights Watch, or the Commission on Human Rights, or any other body that could have stood in the way of Upham’s homecoming and inevitable murder.

“In the case of Jesse,” Agra says, “he was never under our program. Who is at fault? Mr. Harry Roque. I am taking this personally,” says Agra.

What is clear is this: that the Department of Justice failed, brutally and thoroughly, in its mandate to dispense justice and protect those who seek it. That Upham refused to meet at the DOJ should not have been cause to stop protection negotiations; neither should the imagined or real arrogance of one Mr. Harry Roque. That Jesse refused to be interviewed at the DOJ should not have stopped Agra from pursuing an interview—especially since that lack of faith is an indictment of an institution whose failure to bring to justice the murderers of at least 30 media men has been criticized by the United Nations. In spite of his lack of faith in the DOJ, Upham was willing to meet.

According to Human Rights Watch, Agra had been told at a meeting to look into the possible protection of Upham. HRW said they had corroborated many of the man’s claims; they said the man was seeking protection. In that meeting, Agra said he had never heard of Upham, and committed to looking into it. Upham is dead now—because the official tasked to protect him allowed his men and his personal whims to get in the way of the pursuit of justice. That Upham was a possible witness, that he was begging for aid, that he was, in fact, in danger of his life, should have been enough for the justice secretary to stir out of his office. Now Upham is dead, because his killers were not afraid of the hand of justice.

This is the result of nine years of the rule of Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo, a state where murderers are permitted to build armies for the price of loyalty, young film critics are murdered in their own kitchens, while the man meant to deliver justice sits at his desk and informs the media that he is “extremely happy” with the work he has done.

In three days, Benigno Aquino III will become the president of the Republic of the Philippines. Commission on Human Rights Chairman Leila de Lima will take over the Department of Justice.

His name is Suwaid Upham, and he said he was a murderer. This is written in the hope that when De Lima wrests justice from Agra, Jesse will be a name that she will not forget.

“Since the President is stepping down after nine years,” says Economic Spokesperson Gary Olivar, “I don’t know if we would still take away from her the opportunity to communicate, even just a little bit, what she has done the past nine years.”

The pageant begins with a float titled “Budget Reform”—a last-minute change, as the original item in the agenda was “the balancing of the budget” and no such balancing occurred with a projected P293-billion budget deficit. It is a last bid for legacy and memory, remember me, see what I’ve done, so long, farewell, auf wiedersehen, good night. In a series of advertisements—on taxpayers’ money, naturally—welcoming the new president, Ms Arroyo also spent considerable space congratulating herself for a job well done, as awkward a welcome as her congratulatory phone call from Shanghai to President-elect Benigno Aquino III.

It is Independence Day in the land of the yellow morning, and the euphoria is still riding high with the moral victory of the son of heroes against the villains of Philippine politics. His is the crown, hail to the king who slew the bad queen.

Criticized for his appointments to the Cabinet, his defenders leaped into the fray, offering sword and shield against all who have questioned his decisions. It is true that much of the criticism is unfair—some have condemned all members of big business, have condemned all entertainers, have condemned all former members of the Hyatt 10, for no other reason than their affiliation. That is wrong, just as wrong as this newspaper implying that those who did not vote for Mr. Aquino have no right to demand, to criticize or to question.

“Others may have some things to say about that,” says the Philippine Daily Inquirer, “but the crucial post-election question is: Shouldn’t the winning candidate be given the space to implement his platform?” Should people who did not vote for Aquino “dictate how Aquino should form his government to meet his mandate?”

It is Independence Day, and democracy is tripping over its own yellow shoelaces. The public does not dictate, by opposing it engages, and what matters is a government that is willing to engage with these questions. The argument that a president should be left on his own, to have space to implement his platform free from criticism, because “an undisputed election victory is another way of saying” that we should “cut him some slack” is an odd idea, as if winning a landslide is a passport to a no-holds-barred party in Malacañang. The right to question does not belong only to partisans. They belong to the people, whether they voted for Aquino, or Richard Gordon, or Joseph Estrada, or accidentally colored in the circle for Jamby Madrigal.

In another Independence Day, on another afternoon nine years ago, it was President Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo who was the People Power president, who was the sudden and reluctant hero who faced down the bad king. For a time it was love and roses and national headlines, a positive approval rating and a mandate that came from the caped crusaders of the Supreme Court. And it was that complacence, the lack of questioning, of criticism and engagement that made many of the sins of the Arroyo administration possible.

So when Aquino announces that his refusal to stop smoking is a virtue and a manifestation of his independence, it is necessary to ask if it is good for the nation that the incoming Philippine president has offered presidential endorsement to a product so dangerous that all advertising was banned in 2007. When he leaves sex education to the mad bishops of the Catholic Church, it is important to ask how he believes he is still promoting women’s rights. When he says that he is against appointing relatives to positions in government, it is fair to ask what stunning credentials have led him to offer the running of the Department of Tourism to his sister’s best friend at his sister’s suggestion.

“I was the one who brought it up with Noy,” says Kris Aquino, “I was the one who brought it up with Boy, not realizing that it would cause such a major [issue].”

This is not to say an entertainer cannot run a government department, but neither is being an entertainer a virtue in itself—it is as illogical as saying Senators Jinggoy Estrada and Lito Lapid are equally good lawmakers because they are both entertainers. It is the same question that should be asked as to why “actor-hunk” Dingdong Dantes should run the National Youth Commission, or why Ogie Alcasid, who starred in the celebrity extravaganza that was Aquino’s first commercial, should have a position that has “something to do with the youth.”

If they say yes to his offer, says Aquino, “Why not?”

It is necessary to ask why. To critique is not to dictate, it is to participate, to speak, to engage. That promise made on May 10 when millions lined up for hours for the right to choose leaders begins its work now, and will continue for the next six years even when the applause ends, love dies and the hero is stripped of legend.

It is Independence Day in the land of the morning, where the moon is a greasy pearl, freedom is a Twitter hashtag and the brave bawl wet in their cradles. Take down the swag of yellow flag, let the stars out, let the sun shine—it flies blue and red today.

“It’s part of the process,” he says. “The people must get to know me.”

It is a new phenomenon in the annals of a notoriously secretive Supreme Court. Although many in media and society have demanded transparency from the courts, the sight of a coiffed, alternately defensive and glad-handing Chief Justice who drops sound bite after sound bite may not precisely be what the public needs to hold the courts accountable. Very little can be gleaned from Corona’s blitzkrieg media crusade, other than his constant and consistent announcement that the Corona court will be a fair court. Court spokesperson Midas Marquez may soon find himself with time on his hands.

This comes on the heels of the Court’s controversial Bersamin decision, voiding Article VII, Section 15 of the Constitution, and permitting outgoing president Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo to appoint a new chief justice two months before the elections during the ban on appointments. Critics, from legal stalwarts to former constitutional commissioners, claimed that the Supreme Court wrongly interpreted the provision meant to prevent an outgoing president from indirectly extending her rule through last-minute appointees in key offices. As expected in the administration of Gloria, the denouncement of the decision did not matter.

Two senior justices refused their nominations, insisting on waiting for the next president to make his decision. Justice Renato Corona accepted the nomination, the same Renato Corona who ran the gamut of chief of staff, spokesperson, chief presidential legal counsel, acting executive secretary and presidential chief of staff of President Arroyo. His decisions, according to Newsbreak Magazine, favored the President over 78 percent. Before his Supreme Court appointment, he had yet to hold any judicial positions.

It is true that his former loyalties do not mean he is incapable of fair judgment. It is also true that his voting record, although seemingly favorable to Ms Arroyo, neither proves nor disproves his biases and his right to his new office. The Judicial and Bar Council has determined that Corona is eminently qualified to head the Supreme Court, and although the Supreme Court decision on midnight appointments may be one of the Court’s most ridiculous yet, it is still the decision of the Supreme Court.

It is not the appointment of Corona that should be questioned now; it is the fact that he accepted on the terms of Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo. The same can be said for those who have accepted the nomination, and should be said if Carpio and Carpio-Morales had chosen to fight for the seat.

There is a reason why among all branches of government, the judiciary is where image is most important. Men who serve in the Supreme Court have given up cocktail dinners and press meetings, junkets and partnerships. They deny interviews with the media, they do not write columns, or speak of knowing the people. They isolate themselves from influence; remove themselves from the public eye, not only for their safety, but to protect the image of the institution of justice. Unlike officials in the executive and legislative branches, justices are not voted in, they are appointed in a silent, highly politicized, mostly incomprehensible process. They take on credibility by virtue of nothing more than the black robes of their appointment, and they keep it by the decisions they make and the careful faces they offer to the public at large.

Justice demands faith, a belief in a higher intelligence that shows neither fear nor favor. When the people lose faith in those who offer justice, decisions, no matter how fair or balanced, will cease to have any effect. It is the state of the country now, where the violated run to news desks and the rebel camps instead of police stations, and a man can sit in jail for 18 years without seeing a judge in a courtroom. This is a Court that already carries the stain of the Arroyo name after a decade of one woman strutting all over the Constitution in high heels.

“I am not in favor of the statement that I will bend to the appointing authority,” says Corona. “I haven’t decided yet. Wait until I’ve decided the cases and how I conduct the business of the Court. You should talk after one year or after I’ve rendered several decisions.”

He forgets that he already made the decision by which he will be judged: the impulse to grab the golden ball at the risk of the rest of the Court. Carpio and Carpio-Morales knew this when they stepped back and insisted on waiting for the next president to appoint, in the same way Corona must have been aware his chances of appointment were far less in competition with the two giants of the high court. There is no clear and present danger that demands a new chief justice today. The Court will stand, decisions will be made, and justice will be parceled out until the thirtieth of June. If this man had been willing to take his chances, to allow the next president to appoint, he would have spared one of the last democratic institutions the burden of being called the Arroyo court for the next six years.

Corona calls criticism water under the bridge.

“I’m sure over time, when I’ve proved myself, the public will learn to appreciate me.”

It is a dangerous burden for the Court, and the man who has shown himself vulnerable to criticism. He has removed his wife from her government position in John Hay as a response to attacks—a move he should have enforced the moment he was appointed a justice, as if his wife’s position was any more or any less a source of conflict of interest now as it was when he was not yet chief. He tells Noynoy Aquino he too is an Atenean and therefore a kindred spirit; he keeps his face before the camera eye, creating a target for an already staggering institution. He has compromised the Court by announcing his fallibility to gossip and innuendo, while playing politician on 24-hour cable. Now he has put himself in a position that compels him to make decisions that are obviously independent of Arroyo, instead of simply making independent decisions. It is an odd bias, but it will be one just the same for a man who seeks appreciation.

“Judge me in a year,” says Corona. It is unfortunate he did not wait one month.

That Gordon is not leading the charge to the Palace cannot possibly be because of Gordon himself. In the wonderful world of the man called Dick, the flowers bloom red, the sky is papered with his posters, and crowds of ballot-clutching jingle-singing voters reach out to touch his hand.

“Name me another candidate that has become Con-Con [Constitutional Convention] delegate at a very young age, who’s a lawyer that became a mayor, that became chairman of Subic Bay, that improved our economy dramatically and took out the yoke of American presence here, that became secretary of tourism against a sea of negativism, then became senator of the Republic, did all those laws, and at the same time, spent 43 years fighting disasters.”

That the senator has an impressive resumé has never been in doubt, a list that includes class president, he reminds Karen Davila on ANC. Perhaps he forgets that leadership is not just a function of achievement, it is also one of character.

This is Richard Gordon, presidential candidate, who spent his RockEd radio interview insulting the Cojuangcos of Tarlac, insinuating all manner of foul deeds. This is Gordon, straight shooter, offended at a caller’s curious question asking him if he thought the Cojuangcos were really corrupt. This is Gordon, presidential candidate, howling at his interviewer for calling him a coward for answering the question with an angry question. And so the best man for the job ripped into Erwin Romulo, UNO editor, RockEd member and Free Press publisher. “You’re just the son of Bert Romulo,” said the red-faced little man, forgetting the live webcam. “You’re nobody.”

It may not be the most advisable act to call a presidential candidate “chickensh-t,” even if it’s true. Then again, the MILF members toting stolen Kalashnikov rifles may not be so careful with their language on the peace-negotiating table, and I sincerely doubt the sight of the president of the Philippines screeching chickensh-t to leftists burning his effigy will result in anything less than a bloody revolution outside Malacañang. It is odd for me to write this, as temperamental writers should be the last people to judge temperaments, but neither am I aspiring for the leadership of over 80 million Filipinos.

“I’m frank,” he says in an interview, after he finished a tangent on the idiocy of everyone but Gordon. “I don’t give a damn what anyone thinks.”

There is a difference between being frank and being a downright jackass, a difference that seems to have been blurring the closer we get to May 10. The sniping online and on air is reaching mammoth proportions, everyone and their mother accused of suddenly either being a whore or a moron. There is no concept of opinion or democracy, only right and wrong, color-coded by baller band. Gordon is on another level altogether—a presidential candidate who throws national tantrums, tosses sexual innuendoes at female reporters, and goes ballistic at the suggestion Dick Gordon is not the most popular boy in class. “You people,” is how he refers to everyone on his rants, “you people are the problem.” For this man, a ballot that does not circle Dick Gordon is a result of some conspiracy against him or a failure in intelligence. It is odd for a man so contemptuous of people to claim he is a man who will represent them best.

He has sued survey companies for brainwashing the public, says the problem of this country is that people do not think. He is contemptuous of the running mate who has had nothing but praise for him. Ask him about Bayani Fernando, and the tandem that took the country by surprise. Ask him why he decided on Fernando. “I did not choose him, he was the one who came to me.” And then he will laugh at his own wit.

Not that this isn’t true. Fernando admits it when asked why he chose Gordon. “He was the only one left.”

Gordon admires many things about Fernando. “In spite of his visage, he’s very humble.”

He says he admires the man’s forthright and straightforward manner. He says he admires what Fernando has done for Marikina. Most of all, Gordon admires Fernando’s admiration for Dick Gordon.

“You know, I’ve heard him say, ‘I learned this from Dick Gordon.’ He would say that on TV and radio. That impressed me.”

“After I am president, after that exposure, Bayani can be president. Then we’ll have to look for somebody else who will continue.”

I never met Gordon before the election season. Whether this is who he really is, or whether the ranting and raving is a reaction to stress and pressure and the survey numbers he swears he cares nothing for, this is not what I want from my president. Presidents are not exempt from humility, and those who think they are end up tyrants and dictators. It is a waste of what would have made a good leader; perhaps a long time ago Gordon knew how to inspire. That Gordon now spends most of his interviews complaining about his opponents, blaming the survey companies and harassing his interviewers explains much about the personality of this man.

“I knew I could have won easily,” he says about running for senator. “I have a pretty good track record. I’m pretty good at what I do. I would be turning my own back on the country if I didn’t run for president.”

There are many and varied reasons why I will not vote for Richard Gordon, and it is not because Noynoy Aquino’s parents were allied 20 years ago with the TV station I write for today, or because Gilbert Teodoro’s people gave me a free T-shirt. Neither is it because the surveys have stolen my mind, or because of oligarchies and monopolies and the sad state of Philippine democracy, or because of any bias for any particular candidate. I would like to put it on the record: I will not vote for Richard Gordon because he is Richard Gordon.

The mirrored walls reflect a gold salver from the King of Malaysia, and a marble elephant from the Prime Minister of India. She talks of communists with a smile, preaches about prayer, and talks of reforestation and disaster reduction and opening the Press Office on Saturdays. “I didn’t know Sunday had the biggest readership.”

Beside her, then Executive Secretary Eduardo Ermita nods to sleep.

This is Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo, president of the Republic of the Philippines, holding court at the Palace, mere months before the end of her nine-year rule, clucking over an unfortunate politician who had just recently been booted out of office.

“That’s why me, after elections, I don’t want to talk until I’m proclaimed.”

A woman with mahogany hair leads Her Excellency into a dining room wallpapered with printed beige wood. The new deputy spokesperson is present, 79-year-old Charito Planas, who had told reporters she meant to behave like their grandma. She is cheery and effusive, her comfortable bulk wrapped in her trademark purple, and speaks of the public reaction to her recent appointment as the newest Arroyo mouthpiece.

“You know, when I was doing my daily walk, I was stopped by so many people who congratulated me with smiles and hugs. They said they’re not mad at you. That’s a wonderful indication, even up to now I’m receiving messages of congratulations.”

That wonderful indication comes side by side with Pulse Asia’s most recent survey, giving the woman Planas claims has been the best since Manuel L. Quezon stepped into office in 1935 a record-breaking 59-percent disapproval rating. In the decade of Gloria, the truth begins with “Hello Garci” and ends with “I am sorry.” A promise means a woman standing in a makeshift Baguio stage in the sunset of 2002, promising to step back from the presidential elections of 2004, because her “political efforts can only result in never-ending divisiveness.” Justice means press conferences for alleged multiple murderers, and Supreme Court judges flashing shriveled balls at a cynical public. To protest means to piss through the nose with compliments from the honorable Jovito Palparan, or, at best, an X-rating for films that “tend to undermine the faith of people in government.”

So wave your orange banners and tie your yellow ribbons, paint every tin urinal green. This election is not about platform or performance; it’s about how far a candidate can run from the tarred brush of the Arroyo administration. Short of assassination by cyanide poison, the elections may be the only way to pry Ms Arroyo’s white-knuckled fingers from the Malacañang throne. She does not care about image or morals, say the white-hot oppositionists. She is responsible for poverty and torture, death by mutilation, nepotism and thievery and the butchery of the Constitution.

And so she is, but she is not the only one. After all, loyalty to a tyrant is not the fault of a tyrant, it is the choice of the men who sit laughing with her in Malacañang drawing rooms, bobbing their heads at her every smiling statement, reassuring her of the public’s love and trust, writing the press releases and rubber stamping whims.

It is an interesting question, as to whether there would have been a Gloria without a Gary Olivar to say that the President deserved to spend whatever she wanted on Le Cirque dinners and rented limousines and P6 million in government funds on tips to waiters and bellboys. The late Cerge Remonde left a legacy of lies that ranged from his angry denial of presidential breast implants to his harried defense of her ZTE involvement. The gentlemen of the Supreme Court wrote away their reputations when they decided to backhoe the Constitution, Gilberto Teodoro wrote away his when he chose to retain Ms Arroyo’s guns in Maguindanao. He condemns the massacre and speaks of the Ampatuan savagery, and then announces he cannot speak against the woman who gave a 40-year-old man a chance, forgetting, for example, that the man had a choice to accept the chance at power.

There is something insulting about all this sudden morality by the gentlemen from the court of the crimson queen. Listen to Arroyo economic spokesperson and Albay Gov. Joey Salceda’s justification for bolting the administration party, after he decided his “lucky bitch” wasn’t so lucky anymore. He says his desertion of the administration was due to suddenly seeing on television “that our two top party officials are quarrelling,” as if Lakas-Kampi-CMD party members had not been howling at each other in the last decade. It would have been more believable if Salceda had gone independent, risking his win for the sake of his much-touted principle, instead of throwing his lot behind the man whose survey numbers have crowned him king.

When Davao del Sur Gov. Douglas Cagas and Camarines Sur Gov. Luis Raymund “LRay” Villafuerte Jr. offer their leashes to the Nacionalistas for the chance to run on the billion-dollar track of the Villar campaign, there is more to it than a “better lineup.” When House Speaker Prospero Nograles says he is “considering” the Villar camp, he has no right to claim righteous indignation—or exasperation—at being “left out of the loop” by an administration party “that is in total disarray contrary to what is being bandied about in the media.” It is an interesting commentary on Nograles’ definition of principle: he will stake his name on a rape of the Constitution with his furious push for the administration’s Charter change in April 2009, he will bring his wife to a presidential US trip on the assumption of a free ride on the government checkbook, he will defend martial law on the vague grounds of rebellion by an Arroyo ally, but, by God, he will not stand for being ignored. Listen to them talk of people and duty, nation and stability.

Former Senate President Franklin Drilon, from the Liberal party, insists that the defection of administration bigwigs to the Nacionalista Party proves that NP standard-bearer Villar is the secret presidential candidate of President Arroyo in this election. I do not know what that makes the Liberal Party after loaning Salceda a new wardrobe of yellow shirts; perhaps Ms Arroyo is hedging her bets with a number of secret candidates. Whatever the truth is, the stink of the Arroyo name does not only belong to those who run under Lakas, it belongs to every candidate who takes in the new moral Lancelots of the republic, and every man who offered himself as shield and sword in her name.

On Dec. 7, 1955, Albert Camus delivered a speech at a banquet in honor of exiled President Eduardo Santos.

“The welfare of the people in particular has always been the alibi of tyrants, and it provides the further advantage of giving the servants of tyranny a good conscience.”

“Camus?” says President Arroyo, tapping her chin. “Yes, I like Camus.”

“He did not only betray Gibo. He betrayed us,” says Antique Gov. Salvacion Perez. Salceda, former economic adviser to the country’s “lucky bitch,” bolted the administration party to accept Noynoy Aquino’s offer to act as Liberal Party’s chair in Bicol.

To the men and women behind Teodoro, staggering under the dead weight of a decade of Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo, the defection of one of its strongest governors was the height of betrayal. It was Judas blowing kisses to a bleeding Jesus. In this story, Jesus wears green, Judas is in yellow, and the 30 pieces of silver make a happy jingle as Albay’s godfather moonwalks his way to the court of the yellow king to offer Albay’s 3 million votes.