Tuesday, October 05, 2004

There's an article in this month's National Geographic about the Phoenicians and how their vast, vibrant society was soundlessly absorbed by other cultures along the Mediterranean. The reporter tagged along with a couple of scientists using DNA tests to find descendants of the Phoenicians, and the magazine published a two-page pull-out featuring portraits of potential candidates. The pull-out was interesting because, although I don't really have the same facial features as the (mostly Lebanese) men shown there, I do have the same eyes. It kinda makes me wanna just hop on a plane and go door-to-door in Beirut, looking for my bio-father.

But that's not why I brought up the article. No, I brought up the article because I fell asleep reading the damn thing, and when the boyfriend woke me up several hours later as he rolled into bed, he saw what I'd been reading, and without skipping a beat, he began singing "My Phoenician guy...Oh!" (to the tune of Grace Jones' always popular "My Jamaican Guy").

Now that, ladies and gentlemen, is love. Or delirium. Or a particular variety of psychosis. Who can say, really?

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