Hooray for you, Mari Sasano.

Last night it was too cold to go out, seriously.

But we went to see a rare Andrea House concert, at Acquired Tastes Tea Co across the street from the MEC. It was a fundraiser for her project, Acupucture Works in Nicaragua. You see, not only is Andrea the sweetest voice you’ll ever hear, but she’s an acupuncturist. And she’s travelling to Nicaragua in January to treat some kids at an orphanage there.

It’s an amazing vision. And it makes perfect sense: acupuncture doesn’t require surgeries, machinery, or medication. Treatments are simple, inexpensive, non-invasive, and quick. They don’t require extensive follow-up. And children, apparently, respond really well to it.

I get excited thinking about this! Something like acupuncture could alleviate suffering easily in places where conventional medicine is too expensive to deliver. And, for that matter, in places like Canada where wait times and cost for expensive treatments and drugs are making it more difficult for people to get the care they need. People like Andrea, who with a little time and money, take the initiative to try something like this– they change the world. I am so proud of her.

Check her out at andreahouse.com, or find her on Myspace: http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendid=128576029

The AWN Myspace is http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendid=126391661

You can send cheques to Change for Children, with a note saying that it’s for Acupuncture Works in Nicaragua.

Amy DeFelice directing her dad, playing a dad who has cloned his son.

It’s a swift, energetic play by Caryl Churchill, in which they all have done a tremendously good job. James De Felice and Patrick Howarth are convincing as father and son (check out Howarth’s echoing De Felice’s mannerisms here and there! Priceless!), though there are here and there an awkwardly paced moment. To be fair, Churchill’s text must’ve been brutal to work with, so many uncompleted sentences!

But the questions in the play are interesting, particularly for me. I have a near-clone in my twin sister, so the idea of where identity resides when genetics are identical for is one I’ve always had to deal with. And the perceived rivalry between two of the “brothers” resembles moments in our relationship when it has been competitive. I have become more like Michael, the clone who is more amused and charmed by the idea of having clones than resentful. I’ve grown to feel that having a twin was a gift, not a threat to my personhood. I could see, though, how someone who hasn’t grown up with it could feel weird about having someone out there walking around with their face.

But after all, as a species, we all share so much of our genetics. When it comes down to it, we’re all nearly identical anyway. “Oh, you say. But we are not! Just look at us!”

Indeed. Pauline and I closely resemble each other. People have said we share mannerisms, and can’t tell us apart on the phone. But she was born bigger than me, and we have grown up to be quite different in as many ways as you might be from your non-twin siblings. She might have had a better spot in the womb, or maybe something might have happened to either one of us as children to account for the differences. So we may as well be genetically unrelated, at the same time that I am nearly genetically indistinguishable from any one of you, and so closely related to apes that you have to look really closely, on a genetic level, to tell the difference.

Amazing, isn’t it?

Just so you know that my weekend wasn’t wasted on ’80s crap Sci Fi, I also went to the opera on Saturday. So there.

It was lavish, as expected. The set was B.I.G., semi-classical but with industrial touches like the metal screening columns. Our Don was a big friendly bear, complete with Fabio hair and much takings-off of his poet blouse. His nice bald servant had a killer voice and great comic timing. He should’ve been the one scoring with the ladies, but we all know that the mean ones succeed, if only at first. Fool me once…

It was saucy! Opening with a bed scene (unshirted), I also noted several actual gropings of breasts, caressings of bums, and so on. Oh, Mozart! I had no idea. It was great fun, with some lovely music (if only I could remember the titles!). I do recommend going to the opera if you can. If you’re under 30, they have a cheapie deal that includes beer and pizza. Go. Go!

I was excited when I first saw the trailer for the movie in the summer. Then it premiered at Toronto, then the hype started to roll, then I got a little Borat-weary. But then the reviews started coming out, tickets were bought, and I was re-excited.

And now… hmm.

Yes, Borat’s schtick is funny. But sometimes, kind of not. Where he is funny is when Borat’s “backward” ideas are reflected right back at him from his American hosts– the part with the rodeo and the frat boys are AMAZING. The suckiness of the humour coach and his dumb “Not!” jokes– Americans suck! The sudden inhospitality of his socialite dinner party, (desite their insistence that Borat could become just like them, eventually) brings up all the snobby xenophobia that we all know exists behind closed doors. Yay for that, then.

Yay also for how they have convinced everyone that this IS a documentary. We all are so willing to believe that none of the events were staged, since it’s better if we think it’s real. But is it? Who knows. What’s interesting (and scary) is how easy it is to get people to buy into it. Are we too used to fake news? Can’t we tell anymore? No. And that’s really, really bad.

Anyhow, onto what is also bad: the inclusion of the Pamela Anderson plot, which turns what would have been a series of episodes into a narrative, well, it doesn’t work. And when his friend abandons him, somehow the camera does not.

But the worst thing was sitting in that giant West Edmonton Mall audience of guffawing meatheads who kept agreeing that yes, fags should be executed and yes, Jews are the devil. How meta is that? These dudes (who kept KICKING MY SEAT) were duped, just like those rodeo guys were duped, into showing their stripes. That’s the thing with irony, eh?