I promised I would recount this adventure here.

Picture it: Tijuana, Mexico, January 1998. Just after the new year, my friend Tiffany and I flew to San Diego to visit my ex-boyfriend Erich, and we decided to spend an evening south of the border. Unfortunately, it was the evening of the same day Erich had one of his frequent dental surgeries to correct his Eastern European teeth. As the three of us caroused Tijuana's nightlife, taking advantage of numerous two-for-one drink specials, we watched the coverage of Sonny Bono's funeral on the bar televisions. Enraptured by Cher's dramatic appearance, I failed to notice the dramatic deterioration of Erich's condition.

While we had all drunk the same amount, Tiffany and I were perfectly coherent, while Erich could barely stand. The alcohol had interacted adversely with the pain medication he had been given earlier that day.

We took a cab back to the border crossing, where Tiffany and I had to physically support Erich, dragging him toward customs (pausing once to allow him to vomit on the carefully manicured lawn of the American checkpoint building) and fending off mercenary Mexicans with shopping carts who wanted to wheel him across the border for a small fee, apparently a prosperous business venture in Tijuana. (And in the interest of accuracy?something in which I have never been especially interested before?I must report here that any earlier versions of this story, in which we did solicit the services of one of these budding young capitalists, were slightly exaggerated.)

Somehow, largely unconscious, Erich stumbled through customs, his intoxicated state and German passport generating only slightly more attention than we Americans received. Afterward, the dragging of his body commenced anew, and Tiffany and I were faced with a new dilemma: I could take Erich's keys and drive his car, but I had no idea how to get back to his apartment. Luckily, he floated to awareness in time to direct me from the back seat.

I realize this is not a particularly interesting tale, although it was both funny and horrifying at the time. I am not a heavy drinker, and it is my experience that straight people share stories of drunken exploits that make this look like a visit to Sesame Street. (I have noticed that, to a certain class of young straight person, telling drinking stories is like talking about the weather.) Still, this is theme week here on everyone's favorite Upside-down Hippopotamus. As the world gears up for an unjust and hypocritical war, in which a country with an elected dictator will be attacked by a country with an unelected dictator for the stated purpose of disarming it of the weapons the invading country sold it to begin with . . . I will be blogging about the idiosyncrasies of my ex-boyfriends.

Tune in and feel the joy.