About the fourth time he came by my booth (I was volunteering for the Rodeo serving drinks at Dore Alley), he mentioned that he was waiting for it to get hot enough to take his shirt off (nevermind the sea of flesh parading by in the blazing sun). While his taking his shirt off whould have certainly made it hot enough for me, it was the way he said "off" that made me ask where he was from originally.
His answer of "New York" was almost enough to break the spell. Almost. As he complimented me on my southern charm.
But I suppose this New Yorker is as much of a Californian as I am, but a transplant to San Diego. It made me think of an e-mail I recently received from my friend Jennifer in Nashville, which spoke of a northern transplant concerned and complaining that their child was learning to talk with a southern accent. The response was this: "Just because your children were born in the South does not make them Southerners. If a cat had kittens in the oven, that wouldn't make them biscuits."
I never got a shot of him, but here are some of my co-cowboys working the booth:
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