Flying Mexicanos, Crouching Cougar

(OK, this post should really be a part of the No Limits series, but I couldn't resist the title above.)

I'm in Vegas, at a show, and that's the reason for no new posts in the past two days. Sorry. Between the very early a.m. flight, the time change and, well, working, I haven't gotten to CC until now. Sorry.

The bad news? I'm staying at the not-remotely-luxurious Hooters because the nicer Tropicana, HQ for the show, was sold out. The good news? No one but me is in the fitness center at 5 a.m., oddly enough. Not a single Hooter girl to be found.

Last night, we headed down the strip for our quota of people watching. I'm not a fan of Vegas, but truly, this is the World Cup/Olympics/World Series/SuperBowl/National Spelling Bee for that particular sport. Our jaunt produced three tour groups of Japanese people wearing surgical masks and looking up at the skyline, dozens of inappropriately dressed "ladies," and a very skinny older Italian man in very skinny red pants and red Hugo Boss sweatshirt with a Beatles haircut.

During the trek, we also stumbled upon a street dance crew. You know the kind ... one bad microphone, a set of speakers, some heavy bass hip hop music and a few buckets to pass around for tips. They called themselves 6 Mexicans and 1 Black Guy and had a nice little crowd participation schtick. I found myself swinging my hips as they busted out some remarkable spinning, flipping and hopping around.

Time for the grand finale, and, sure enough, yours truly gets plucked from the crowd, along with a sweet little girl named Jasmine, a Latina lady and a young British gent. They line us up Bunny Hop style and tell us to dance. We do.

I'm last in line and there's a dude behind me grinding ... I'm afraid to turn around to see what that's all about.

After collecting cash from the crowd (and from those of us on display), the fun begins. We're all told to stand shoulder to shoulder. Check. Then they tell us all to crouch down. Umm, yeah. My knees don't crouch, but I give 'er all I got. "Put your head down!" They scream. I try, but I'm having trouble crouching. "Put your head down!"

I do.

And like a Russian gymnast, one of the dudes flips up and over the lot of us.

The crowd applauds.

I get to stand up.

And only then does it register in my brain.

When the young guy on the mike was shaking the crowd down for donations, and directed his attention to me and my $20 bill, he said,

"Something something something Cougar something something something."

 I think I'm supposed to take offense to that. Oddly, I don't. Old Me would never have been called a Cougar.