Once upon a time I went to Cancun with a few of the lads. On our first evening we were ejected from the Presidente Intercontinental and took up residence at the Sheraton. We destroyed our livers each night, and then struggled to regenerate them under healing powers of the Mayan sun. For some reason we bought whistles, which -- time and again -- brought forth a Brazilian-style call and response from the sweaty crowds of the various thunderdomes. We dined on the finest street tacos available at four AM in the seedy heart of downtown Cancun. We did things that we were, at once proud, and not proud of. We climbed to the top of Chichen Itza and dreamt in the shade of a pyramid. We convinced girls to write in red lipstick across their bare chests the message "Wish you were here" for a friend who could not make it. All this we did. But perhaps the most fun occurred when the four of us hijacked the stage at the Hard Rock Café and sang all fifty seconds of "Little Room" before we were escorted to the door.

Every time I hear that song I know I was a rock star for just under a minute.