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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