A few days after the foregoing piece had appeared in the Atlanta Journal-Constitution, I received a phone call from a gentleman who preceded without pleasantries or introduction to lambast me for being against “everything southern,” including NASCAR, the Confederate flag, etc. I did not speak for the South, my caller declared, but was simply pandering to the reprehensible, carpet-bagging Atlanta paper. Able to contain myself no longer, I asked if my critic believed that he actually spoke for the South. Yes indeed, he averred, adding he had been born and raised right there in Atlanta. (It never ceases to amaze me how many of my critics seem to leap to the conclusion that they all are more “southern” by birth than I am. My name is Cobb, and I’m living in Georgia. Hello!) To this, I replied that having grown up in the tiny country town of Hartwell, I considered him a Yankee-fied city slicker, but I promised nonetheless that if he would give me his name I would attach a statement to my next newspaper column notifying readers that I certainly didn’t speak for him. Although he did give me his name, having failed to frighten or fluster me at that point, he signed off with “Aw, go f___ yourself, a__-hole!” Had he hung around, I might have pointed out that I believe such an activity is illegal in Georgia, but then, of course, I might also been forced to concede that maybe he is more “southern” than I am after all.