Bubba Yum? : Ready for It or Not, the World Is About to Chew the Atlanta Fat

Item: Spotted on North Highland--a car with a stuffed Izzy doll strapped to its hood, legs dangling over the grill like a bagged deer. . . .

--Atlanta Journal Constitution, July 9, 1996

“Sir, New Mexico, old Mexico, it doesn’t matter. I understand it’s a territory, but you still have to go through your nation’s Olympic committee. . . .”

--Olympic ticket sales supervisor, Feb. 28, 1996

Let the Games begin, indeed.

Atlanta has come a long way since it was awarded the 1996 Olympics six years ago, but the ride has not been smooth. The euphoria and laughter quickly gave way to insecurity and dread, as the city struggled with its new-found status among the world’s elite and groped for the proper pose.

Gracious Southern host? Futureworld? Corporations-R-Us? Tara-ville? The Little City that Could? Or, as one wag put it years ago, “Spartanburg with Skyscrapers?”

Well, Atlanta’s still struggling with its identity, and it’s a sure bet nothing will be decided before the Olympic Games have come and gone. But the easy-goin’, slow-talkin’, porch-sittin’, okra-eatin’ lifestyle that has kept Atlanta patiently humming for decades continues to persevere, outlasting all the spin doctors and city slogan campaigns, and figures to last well into the next century.

So let Olympic organizers fiddle with their traffic patterns and ticket sales all they want. We got a mess o’ collards and some boiled peanuts on the stove, Hank Williams is playing on the stereo, and Junior’s comin’ round later in his pick-up so we can all go to the drive-in. And get yourself an Ale-8 while you’re up.

Nobody’s officially christened these the “Bubba-lympics” yet, but there’s more than a week to go. And that’s pleeeenty of time.

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“I have a message for Canada: Stick a hockey puck where the sun don’t shine.”

--Columnist Lewis Grizzard, Oct. 21, 1992

To say Atlanta has struggled to find its place among the great international cities is an understatement, especially since it’s not too sure where most of those cities are.

When the City Council passed a proclamation in 1994 inviting Bucharest to become a sister city, the resolution read, “Bucharest, Hungary.” But Bucharest is the capital of Romania, while Budapest--which does sound similar--is the capital of nearby Hungary.

What’s amazing is that nobody in the mayor’s office or the City Council caught the screw-up, even after it was read aloud and passed on a unanimous vote.

Finally, an aide to Mayor Bill Campbell realized the error moments before he signed it. But Atlanta is not exactly a city steeped in heritage, especially since most of it was burned to the ground during the Civil War. Nothing is much more than 100 years old as a result, and the city now exists primarily as a way station for carpetbaggers and conventioneers. Many Georgians who live outside the Perimeter--the highway that encircles and defines Atlanta--never venture downtown for fear of getting lost.

But how can it matter where you’re going if you don’t know where you’re from? Unfortunately, most of Atlanta’s problems with geography have made big news.

Flying the Canadian flag upside down at the 1992 World Series between the Atlanta Braves and the Toronto Blue Jays--technically the fault of the U.S. Marine Corps--caused such a flap that President Bush issued a formal apology to Canada, while an Atlanta Olympic official prompted stunned silence when she stared at a map of a proposed torch relay that began in Olympia, Greece, and wondered aloud why it was starting in Italy.

Then there’s the poor ticket seller and her supervisor who made headlines earlier this year by insisting to an out-of-state buyer that New Mexico was a foreign country. That controversy refuses to die, so much so that Atlanta resident Bob Romano turned his Midtown house into the Unofficial Consulate of New Mexico, compete with flags and posters supplied by the 47th state’s tourism office. Romano offers nachos and cool drinks to anybody who stops by to sign his petition--to make New Mexico a state.

‘We just want people to have a positive Olympic experience,” he said.

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“Bubba’s Hair and Nail Salon”

--Atlanta BellSouth telephone listing

It was Julius B. “Bubba” Ness, the former chief justice of the South Carolina Supreme Court, who once stated, “When somebody doesn’t call me Bubba, I know they either don’t know me or don’t like me,” but it might just as well have been a Georgian. From Bubba & Son Diesel Repair in Conyers to the “Bubba-palooza” music festival at Stone Mountain to former Congressman Lauren “Bubba” McDonald, the state is rife with Bubbas, the nickname of brotherly affection that has come to define the Southern redneck lifestyle.

There was a time when everybody was a Bubba, whether openly or just around the gas pump. But those days are clearly numbered. Even with a Southerner in the White House, Bubbas are a dying breed, done in by a lifestyle of pickin’ and grinnin’ that couldn’t keep up.

And who better to toll the bell than Southern magazine, which screamed in a cover story as far back as 1988: “Bubba! You Don’t Have To Be Dumb, Mean, Fat, Slow, White or Male To Be One.”

Pictured alongside that headline was the final nail in the coffin: a smiling young Asian man in a John Deere hat.

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“Give me an RC Cola and a Moon Pie”

--Song title, Lonzo and Oscar

Southern food has been getting a bad rap ever since the first Northerner found out what chitlins really were, but there’s one undeniable fact: They taste good.

Whether it’s barbecue and Brunswick stew or hush puppies and black-eyed peas, you can bet Olympic visitors will eventually tire of the haute cuisine to be had around town and dip into the simple stuff at places like Fat Matt’s, Deacon Burton’s and Thelma’s Kitchen. Whether they ever come back is anybody’s guess.

Atlanta has one of the highest concentrations of certified master chefs in the country, yet the city’s love affair with fried chicken and catfish make it a tough place to sell pate. Just ask Guenter Seeger, the executive chef of the Ritz-Carlon Hotel in Buckhead, who came to Atlanta 11 years ago from his native Germany.

“It was pretty bad when I got here,” he said. “I bet for every three plates I sent out, at least one would come back. The only reason I didn’t quit was because I’m the type of person who likes to work things out.”

As a result, upscale restaurants around Atlanta now offer grits souffles and blackened catfish, or hide behind Southern-sounding names like Kudzu Cafe and the Blue Ridge Grill.

But anybody with a brain knows where the real crowds will be during the Olympics: The Varsity, an Atlanta landmark famous for its onion rings and fried peach pie and happens to sit at the edge of the Olympic Athletes Village downtown, has built an air-conditioned outdoor deck and is laying in extra help. They even issued a collectors pin--since seized by Atlanta Olympic officials--of onion rings in the shape of the Olympic rings.

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“He asked me if Robert E. Lee had ever been president of the United States. I said, ‘No, but he should have been.’ ”

--Columnist Lewis Grizzard

Southern humor has been playing on the theme of rednecks and for decades, poking fun at the images of washing machines on the front porch and pick-up trucks on the front lawn even as it celebrated them. There was a grain of truth in all of it, sometimes melancholy, sometimes mean, but never far from the bone.

Grizzard, the curmudgeonly Atlanta columnist who died several years ago, remains wildly popular for refusing to give in to the society that deems rednecks and Southerners out of step, and his books continue to sell well.

His mantle has been assumed by comedian Jeff Foxworthy, an Atlanta native who shot to fame with his “You Might Be A Redneck If . . .” routines that were so funny they were unofficially banned within the Olympic offices here.

Foxworthy returned to Atlanta on July 11 to perform at the Chastain Park Amphitheatre, bringing with him new material that razzes the Olympics. He said NBC might use him to spice up its coverage during the Games, but told the Atlanta Journal Constitution, “I’m not sure how welcome the Olympics folks are going to be.”

Either way, it’s clear Foxworthy understands the South, the Games and these times better than anybody else when he says, “I can’t wait for the opening ceremonies: ‘Greetings, y’all, and welcome you dang foreigners from other nations. Dear Lord, be with our guests and prepare them for the butt-whupping they are about to receive.’ ”

Let the Games begin.