Is she woman enough?

The whole Obama vs. Hillary thing has been fascinating. I know if my Republican mom is planning to vote for Obama, something big is afoot.

I like Obama. I think he's super keen. But I think Hillary would make a better president. Obama would make a brilliant VP. Hillary would run the office, Obama would raise the spirits.

I gave Hillary my vote in the primaries and got a little thrill doing it. It felt damn good.

A fellow Hillary-voting friend of mine shared Robin Morgan's opinion piece with me recently. Let's just say it got me riled, in a good way.

Robin finds some ugly inequities:

- "When a sexist idiot screamed 'Iron my shirt!' at Hillary Rodham Clinton, it was considered amusing; if a racist idiot shouted 'Shine my shoes!' at Barack Obama, it would've inspired hours of airtime and pages of newsprint analyzing our national dishonor."

- "Carl Bernstein's disgust at Hillary's 'thick ankles.' Nixon-trickster Roger Stone's new Hillary-hating 527 group, 'Citizens United Not Timid' (check the capital letters). John McCain answering 'How do we beat the bitch?' with 'Excellent question!' Would he have dared reply similarly to 'How do we beat the black bastard?'"

- "The women's movement and Media Matters wrung an apology from MSNBC's Chris Matthews for relentless misogynistic comments. But what about NBC's Tim Russert's continual sexist asides and his all-white-male panels pontificating on race and gender? Or CNN's Tony Harris chuckling at 'the chromosome thing' while interviewing a woman from The White House Project? And that's not even mentioning Fox News."

She issues some pointed "goodbyes":

"Goodbye to a campaign where he has to pass as white (which whites—especially wealthy ones—adore), while she has to pass as male (which both men and women demanded of her, and then found unforgivable). If she were black or he were female we wouldn't be having such problems, and I for one would be in heaven."

"Goodbye to an era when parts of the populace feel so disaffected by politics that a comparative lack of knowledge, experience, and skill is actually seen as attractive..."

"Goodbye to the so-called spontaneous 'Obama Girl' flaunting her bikini-clad ass online—then confessing Oh yeah it wasn't her idea after all, some guys got her to do it and dictated the clothes, which she said 'made me feel like a dork.'"

And she gives an inspiring message to us estrogen-fueled types:

"We are the proud successors of women who, though it took more than 50 years, won us the vote."

"Hillary said she found her own voice in New Hampshire. There's not a woman alive who, if she's honest, doesn't recognize what she means."

"Me, I'm voting for Hillary not because she's a woman—but because I am."

Oscar gloating

I would like to thank the Academy for having impeccable taste in rewarding on the basis of sheer merit this year. I would also like to thank the Academy for making me look damn brilliant with my best ever prediction results, naming Best Picture, Director, Actor, Actress, Supporting Actor, Supporting Actress and Best Original Screenplay correctly, as this previous post shows.

Of course, I would've liked to see The Diving Bell and the Butterfly be honored, too. But Cannes took care of that.

The best part of all those predictions coming true is that I chose them all based on my gut reaction and true admiration for each film or party involved (except for Daniel Day-Lewis, but after seeing There Will Be Blood, which I hadn't when I made my predictions, I do agree he deserved the statuette).

I only got to see parts of the awards broadcast, but I clapped with joy (and lust) for Javier, got fahklempt about Diablo Cody's charming insecurity, sadly missed Marion Cotillard's speech because of a work call(!), but got up and did a touchdown dance for the Coen Brothers' Best Director Oscar. Booya, to ya. I feel like the belle of the non-existent Vanity Fair party!

Unconditional is good

My good friend, L-girl, informed her almost-seven-year-old son, K-boy, that she, he and me we're about to have one of our traditional Sunday outings (e.g., go eat Mexican food/then feed the ducks in the park/then go get ice cream). His response was priceless:

"I love Nictate! I wouldn't change a single thing about her."

I was instantly charmed by the innocent sentiment and my day had been made. But as the week went on, his statement kept echoing in my head. Of course, what he'd said was adorable and flattering, but why did it keep tapping my shoulder for attention? Then I realized why. Because it was totally unconditional, uncensored, unselfish, and, thus, totally unfamiliar in the topsy-turvy, metropolitan adult world I've been rattling around in of late.

After that insight, I started to reflect on how much of life is full of judgment and criticism—even in mundane moments, like the stranger who honks impatiently when he thinks you're taking too long to turn right. Or in the old familiarity-breeds-contempt scenario, when a grumpy mate growls about you doing that little thing he or she hates. Schools, governments and corporations further serve to identify and eliminate our flaws in the name of the greater good.

Sure, you can tune the incremental nit-picking out, but it wears on a soul over time, like tiny little tears on a seam. And that's not even counting our inner critics, who seem to be assigned to us for lifelong gigs by the time we're old enough to know what "no" means.

This morning, before hitting the snooze button for the third time, I heard something on NPR that caught my ear. A sound bite from the venerable, late Mr. Rogers, played in honor of the 40th anniversary of the first nationwide broadcast of his beloved kids' show. The video above includes the sound bite NPR played. Funny how nicely it aligns with the refreshing open-heartedness of an almost-seven-year-old's take on friendship.

In this official goodbye to fans, Mr. Rogers says: "I like you just the way you are."

What a gigantic gift given in eight little words.

May we all get to be liked like that.

The Diving Bell and the Butterfly

Well, well, well. I've gone and surprised myself.

I postponed seeing the critically lauded film The Diving Bell and the Butterfly for week upon week, dreading spending two hours watching a tragic story told with claustrophobic camera work. A couple of people reassured me that it was uplifting and inspiring. Uh-huh, sure. You're telling me that seeing the world through the one working eye of a real-life French fashion editor bon vivant, Jean-Dominique Bauby, who was suddenly paralyzed in his prime is going to raise my spirits. But then I heard the terrific Mathieu Amalric (star of the excellent French drama Kings and Queen—rent it!) was in the lead role and I reconsidered. Mon dieu, I'm glad I did. Because, mon dieu, this film is emotionally ravaging and visually ravishing.

I walked into the theater prepared to face whatever rabbit hole of tortured emotion and onanistic artistry director Julian Schnabel saw fit to drag me down. What I got instead was a wonderland worthy of Alice.

Let's put it this way. The Diving Bell and The Butterfly is threatening to knock No Country for Old Men into the number two spot of my still to be scribed Top Ten Films of 2007 list. I think it'll have to be a tie. Both films are masterpieces. Both stayed on my mind for days. Both made me feel compelled to read the books that inspired them. But The Diving Bell and the Butterfly offers one thing No Country for Old Men couldn't (and, to be fair, shouldn't): Hope.

It is rare to encounter such fully realized perfection in a film. Every element is crafted with beauty and truth, even in the story's darkest moments.

Everyone who touched this film was blessed by Midas himself—from its visionary director, Schanbel, to its gifted writer, Ron Hargrove, its elegant editor, Juliette Welfling, and its gossamer cinematographer, Janusz Kaminski.

The performers were all pitch perfect, too, in roles that required a delicate touch—the soulful Mathieu Amalric as the irresistible Jean-Dominique, the vulnerable Emmanuelle Seigner as his long-suffering love, the sweetly wry Marie-Josée Croze as a patience-of-the-saints speech therapist and Max von Sydow as the heartbreaking patriach.

What the cast and crew has created here is one of the most gorgeous and galvanizing films ever made. Period.

Evidently, Johnny Depp was first attached to play Bauby and was the one who insisted Schnabel direct. While I'm glad Johnny ran off to play a pirate instead (his celebrity would've been too heavy a burden for this delicate film to bear), his choice of Schnabel was inspired.

So thank you, Johnny. Thank you, Julian. Thank you, Mathieu. But, most of all, thank you, Jean-Do. You were a reluctant hero literally trapped in a man's body, but your spirit still soars.

Valentine's Day gift idea

If you're wondering how to show your main squeeze how much you care on Valentine's Day, why not take a page from Sarah Silverman's book of love? This video was her birthday present to her boyfriend, Jimmy Kimmel. (Thanks for the link, homie.)