Mr. Huizenga will see you now pt. 2

After dragging this tale out for the better part of 2 weeks, I almost tempted to remind folks there was a game I went to. Given the first couple of posts on this trip, the game would appear to have been secondary. Given that Tech lost, it was. Such is life. On with the story and an otherwise Semitic-free post.

Miami is generally thought to be a fairly tropical place filled with def bods, most of whom wear next to nothing and stay up most nights binging on cocaine. In fact, that's probably why most people go there. Were I ever to find myself in a state of cocaine-fueled paranoia, I'd probably take some comfort in knowing the last thing I'd ever see was a spray-tanned, roid-raging mook beating me to death with a lead pipe for eyeing his heavily siliconed lady friend on South Beach.

But that's not why I go to Miami. Oh, no. Who needs beaches, babes or cocaine when I've got Yellow Jacket football in the Orange Bowl?

So after a rather uneventful drive from West Palm Beach down some stretch of interstate, we ended up in Land Shark Stadium. A stadium that, I believe, is named for a thoroughly unnecessary beer created by the thoroughly unnecessary Jimmy Buffet. Those would be strikes 1 and 2 for any scoring at home. The fact that the scenery on our particular route had the beach and all its beautimus trappings cleverly disguised as your basic barren, concrete landscape would be, if not strike 3, at least a foul tip. Thus far not quite the hot, sexy scene Miami I was envisioning. Of course, since our convertible Ferrari turned out to be a 2009 Chevrolet Aveo, that's probably just as well. Sensible? Yes. Sassy? No.

(BTW, I know that as the scenery was en route to the stadium, technically, that would be strike 1, making Jimmy Buffet strike 3. But this was the first time Tech had played in the Orange Bowl since 1967 so I'll be damned if I was going to let that Hawaiian-shirted goofball ruin my evening. He's already ruined too many ears.)

We were told to arrive early, so we did just that. I can only assume that the powers that be suggest early arrival to allow for the maximum tailgating time since, being a rather professional operation, entrance to/from the stadium was rather painless. What this all means is that given our inability to find even a McDonald's on the way--seriously, Miami, what gives? Doesn't all that cocaine make you slightly hungry?--we pulled into our spot an impressive 2+ hours before game time. This gave us maximum to watch everybody else do their tailgating and pretend that we actually had something to talk about. It's hard to adequately describe the overwhelming sense of failure that accompanied sitting in a rented Chevy Aveo, watching folks set up grills and prepare food that you know you'll not be getting. Especially when it's a somewhat un-Miami 45F.

In our favor was Two for Tuesday on the local rock station so I got to remember how much I hate radio. But at least I heard some Foghat. Andy decided if ever there were a prime situation to roll down the windows and crank "Slow Ride" this was it. I agreed and decided the time for action was now so I took off my jacket, leaving me only a sweatshirt, a sweater, an oxford and a t-shirt from being shirtless. Go wild. Indeed.

But after one too many Van Hagar songs we decided to take our chances inside the stadium. While the parking lot seemed fairly secure it was perilous enough that a fellow just this side of stable was warning of impending eternal damnation. Figuring that Hell, in fact, had already frozen over, Andy went back to the car to retrieve his jacket.

In the meantime, I stood and listened to a somewhat convoluted theory on how this game, the death of Michael Jackson, and I'm sure if I'd stuck around long enough, the Jews (sorry) all meshed together to ensure that God's wrath would be visited upon us. The would-be victims seemed to be taking the news rather well. A fact that can either be attributed to the stoic piety of the attendees or general boredom with life in their hometowns.

After riding the tallest escalator in the world, (really, like 10K feet) and an acceptable meal of chicken strips, we found our seats. And after all sorts of announcements and pregame mumbo jumbo, what would turn out to be the highlight of my evening occurred: an appearance by Alto Reed (possibly a stage name), former(?) sax dude for Bob Seger's Silver Bullet Band, playing America the Beautiful.

Much like the previous sighting of Romeo Crendel in the terminal in Atlanta, Mr. Reed's appearance had a randomness that really made me wonder just how he'd got to that point. Though I missed much of his almost certainly soaring rendition of ATB pondering such a thing, I decided it probably involved an Orange Bowl official aimlessly driving around Miami, probably looking for cocaine, and finding Mr. Reed playing on a street corner instead.

I'd hoped Mr. Reed would pull out his patented playing two saxophones at one time bit or at least play that smooth bit from "Turn the Page". Alas, he didn't do either. Andy and I decided that the dual saxes was a bit too physically dangerous to be attempted nowadays. Just as well since I subsequently learned the move was actually banned in 1985 for fear it would encourage youngsters to play the saxophone. But man, it would have been awesome and a childhood dream would have been fulfilled. Admittedly, a childhood dream I'd not thought about since childhood, but a childhood dream nonetheless.

And then some lady sang the national anthem and the game started and during any stoppage of play, they used the PA to thank everyone who'd ever come to any event in the history of the world. A safe bet that poor bastard is still sitting in the announcer's booth thanking corporate stooge after corporate stooge for helping make your 2010 Fed Ex Orange Bowl such a bitchin success. Oh yeah, did I mention it was cold?

Since the game was turning out to be not really that much fun for Tech fans, I began to pin my hopes on what was sure to be an amazing halftime show somewhere around five minutes into the game. For my patience (and $125), I was rewarded a mini-concert by Kool & the Gang. Or at least Robert "Kool" Bell and some dudes who probably were in grade school the last time The Gang had a hit. You takes what you can gets.

I was nonplussed but since the temp was no hovering around 40F, I really didn't care. I certainly wasn't going to shake my groove thang anyway. The fans from Iowa, however, really seemed to enjoy this unexpected treat. Not really sure whether this is because Iowans really do love "Ladies Night" and the other classics of that funked-up catalog or they just couldn't believe their good fortune at getting to see a real, live, black man in person.

(Jeepers creepers! Marge will never believe this. They really are like us, but with darker skin.)

But kudos to Kool & the Gang for bringing the funk. But more so for being able to keep a straight face while hordes of uber-white cheerleaders scattered about the entire field, did what I'll generously call a routine to the sounds of "Jungle Boogie." Simultaneous, organized, mass, spasms were more accurate.

It's the small moments like these that make trips like this worth it for me. Sure, I was ticked because Tech lost. I didn't see the beach. Didn't see any cocaine. And I'd really preferred Miami have lived up to its end of the deal, temperature wise. But when irony just plops down at one's door like that, it's all one can do but say, "Thank you."

Thank you.

Mr. Huizenga will see you now

Being as I have the day off, I spent a fair portion of the morning flipping around the channels. Actually, I spent a fair portion of the morning asleep but the portion that I was awake was spent flipping around the channels. This activity was for no real reason; I didn't want to watch TV and certainly wasn't going to sit through Maury or the umpteenth airing of Sportscenter. Per usual, this was all just as well as I found only disappointment in the selections. That is until I stumbled across a rather intriguing title in the guide, The Whale That Ate the Jews.

(Now who doesn't love the Jews? Okay, maybe the Nazis. And I suppose large swathes of the world, in general. And Al-Quaeda isn't really that gear on all things hasidic. But as for me, I'm a-OK with God's chosen people and generally defer to His wisdom on these sort of matters. Plus, I'm pretty sure the Jews own the interwebs.)

So natch, I does a double take and figure that even if this turns out to be nothing more than a sequel to The Fish That Saved Pittsburgh, it's worth a look. Turns out I misread the title. It was actually The Whale That Ate Jaws. I don't know about you, but that's more like snooze city to your beloved correspondent. Never been much of a fan of Jaws and the fact there's only one killer whale movie that matters, Orca, pretty much speaks volumes.

Speaking of the Jews...I really should get back to my Orange Bowl tale.

You can hear it rattle

It's still rather nipply around here and since the weather is what people talk about when they've nothing else to talk about, people are talking about the cold. As I tend to think it's better to just go along with the crowd on these matters, I just agree, "Yes, it's cold and it sucks, etc." The etc. being my only giveaway that perhaps my heart just isn't in such convos. The weather on Jupiter would make for much more interesting discussion. Therefore...

Andy and I never got up the nerve to approach Mr. Coach Romeo Crendel, not sure what I would have said to him anyway. Perhaps, "That sure is a swell coat you got there, chief." But I continued checking back to make sure he was still there. With each glance, I could feel the slightest tingle of excitement rising further up from my toes that I might share a plane with such a person of such note. Not so much note that I recognized him on my own, mind, but of more note than the hoards of Mr. & Mrs. Blue Hairs who would also be occupying our space.

Please understand, I've nothing against the aged. Pulp's Help the Aged is on my running ipod and I have seen an episode of The Golden Girls. Clearly I'm not ageist. And with any luck, I'll get there one day as well but if young whippersnappers ever want to see where they're headed, then fly to West Palm Beach out of Atlanta. Admittedly, I'm not much of a mathelete, but I'm quite certain the median age on our flight was death. In fact, barring an in-flight incident, I think Andy, Romeo and I were the only three who could legitimately expect to live the whole way.

I'm generally not a miserable bastard. Nor do I get into dead pools and the like, but nevertheless I began making mental bets with myself over who might not see touch down in West Palm. (Not that I wanted anything of that sort to happen, because I've no doubt these were all good and decent people much loved by many and even getting the occasional card from children/grandchildren to remind them of such. But when faced with free time one bides the time as best one can. So...) The even money was on the gent who was at the front of the line to board, was comfortably in his seat by the time we boarded, only to discover he was in the wrong seat just before takeoff.

Not to be outdone was the lady who lost her pocketbook. Understandably distressed, she was determined to get off the plane. In fairness, at this point, so was I and had decided that if she led the charge, I'd have her back. I thought better of it since the doors had been shut and the jetway was, by then, a few steps away from the plane. Leaping not being one of my strong points.

Admirably calm, the flight attendants nevertheless were having a most difficult time making the lady realize that in this post-9/11 world, we don't play around no more. Rules are rules. I thought there was a chance some jackboots would come marching down and toss her off onto the tarmac or at fire up the tasers. Of course, I wasn't hoping for such a scene, but again, post-9/11, since she posed no danger to anyone and fit no obvious profile, I figured the full arm of Homeland Security was raring to go.

The seconds passed like minutes and her equally seasoned boy toy began to get a little more distraught. I suspect this was more to do with the fear of being SOL if someone asked him about his grandkids during the flight than the civil disobedience going down. Meanwhile, folks all around gave the the universal look for I'm-not-really-looking-but-I'm-trying-to-look-like-I-am-so-maybe-this-lady-will-sit-down-and-we-can-leave-and-I-can-get-back-to-my-WordJumble. It really was all going to Hell, post-haste.

But at the last moment, her pocketbook was found. By her husband. In her seat. Where she had put it when she sat down. Hiding in plain sight. An odd, somewhat sarcastic cheer/groan swept through the cabin. This cheer may or may not have been led by me. A happy ending to be sure, and all was forgotten by the time the attendants dispensed with the increasingly paltry snacks.

The goodwill carried over for the rest of the flight. I enjoyed trying to hear my ipod over the roar of the engines and occasionally snuck peaks at the bodice ripper, the not-quite-elderly lady to my right was reading. The inflight entertainment, episodes of the funny 30 Rock and somewhat less funny Parks & Recreation, fared less well. I think someone misoverestimated the interest of these on a flight filled with exactly 2 people under 50. In the end, though, everyone survived and we all deplaned with far less drama and far greater speed than we, uh, planed.

Thank Jeebus for the early bird special at Denny's.

(Note: with any luck, my next post might actually get around to the real, live Orange Bowl. Though if one saw said game, one would probably wonder, "why bother?")

Marque Mouchoirs

Since most of the God-fearing western world--or at least the parts that matter--follows college football, it's probably not much of a news flash to most that Tech had a pretty good year. No, they didn't beat THE CCCI, but they did entertain me quite a bit and won the ACC championship to boot. I'll probably be accused of settling for less but I'll take that most seasons, like this one for instance. Which is probably of great comfort to the team and all who sail with it since, as a fan, I have a tremendous impact on the outcome. Or at least that's what the jumbotron always tells me.

But because they won the conference, Tech found themselves playing in Miami in the Orange Bowl. Because I'm required by law to attend any game that I can't think of a good enough reason not to, I was there. Which was actually the point of all the previous sentences of gibberish. Sorry.

This would be the point where I'm obligated to point out that I'm not a fan of air travel, but do it anyway. Therefore: I'm not a fan of air travel, but do it anyway. What's not to like? There's virtually no hassle, it's cheap and life generally doesn't get much more fun than cruising along at 30K feet with the constant fear that you're suddenly not going to be. I like to think that all planes will remain in flight as long as at least one person onboard is willing it to stay aloft. I magnanimously provide this service free of charge on all my flights. You're welcome, Earth.

I suppose that getting somewhere I want to be is actually a rather nice bonus to flying, but I must admit that one of the biggest thrills of the whole experience is the prospect of seeing famous, or at least interesting, folks in the terminal. Not Tom Cruise/lovely Gwyneth famous, honestly who gives a rat-ass about seeing them; I'm not TMZ. No, I want the obscure and esoteric. (If they must actually be famous, smoking French actresses only please.) Which is why I was giddy when I heard the terminal's voice-in-the-sky page Alejandro Pena. Who he? Only the former Atlanta Braves reliever in the early 90s.

Alas, I didn't see him though I immediately began looking around like a jackass, expecting him to be right beside me and announce to everyone, well, me, "Hey, I'm Alejandro Pena. I wonder what I'm needed for and can I eat my hot dog first." Understand, that in my world a famous person is the only individual with that name from then on. Do you know any other Fennis Dembo's besides THE Fennis Dembo? I rest my case.

Since the rich and famous--admittedly, I'm being slightly generous with the terms--are the only people that have any reason to be anywhere at anytime, it only seems fair and the easiest way to avoid confusion. I know that's a tough pill for Mr. Tom Hanks of 362 Lois Lane, Hillsboro OH 45133, his wife Greta and their two adorable children, Jennifer and Orson to swallow, but so it goes.

So having accomplished somewhat a goal for the trip, I hurriedly ran back to tell Andy my good fortune. However, before I could even get through the "Guess who" part of "Guess who I heard paged" Andy began, rather conspiratorially, "That's Romeo Crennel at one o'clock. Don't look." Now you may know your former NFL coaches who also happened to briefly coach at Tech. In some cases, I do. Sadly, in this case I did not.

A brief bio on Mr. Crennel ensued from Andy, which will not be repeated here. Suffice to say the highlight of his coaching career, and probably life, was no doubt being featured on one of those "amusing" Coors Light commercials. The ones where they take a clip from a post-game press conference and make it look like the coach is answering questions about beer from a pack of assorted goofballs. Humor does not belong in football. Beer does not belong in goofballs. Goofballs do not belong on Earth. So I guess it all evens out.

And to think I haven't even gotten on the plane yet. More to follow, though probably of equal insignificance.

Who needs Alan Thicke anyway?

As I was saying. I really didn't intend to take a break from writing, but it just sort of happened that way. Two months probably gave even the most infrequent of visitors to this site a chance to memorize key lines and phrases of the Flat Stanley post. Which is not to say that tale did not deserve the spotlight, but even Cats eventually closed. Please note, I'm not comparing myself to Andrew Lloyd Webber's whiskered meisterwerk. Personally, I'd like to think I'm somewhat more entertaining, but admittedly, Sir Lloyd Webber set that bar set pretty low. Which is why he's been knighted and I'm posting drivel to a disinterested world. Of course, Roger Waters has never gleefully pined for my death either, unlike SLW. I guess we really were all equal in the end.

In the interim there was a fair bit of news on this particular home front. The EPJ became the EMJ (Magistrate) and the workload of this office increased somewhat. I saw dozens of flicks, some of which were actually decent. There were a couple of big holidays scattered about. I must be honest; those were nice to see come and go. There were some quiet sad times that will not be mentioned. There were also some much happier moments. None of which involved any sort of proposal/ring concerning the lovely Marisol and me. This was much to the disappointment of far too many folks without dogs in that fight. So to speak.

Instead, she gifted me a camera whilst I gave a coat that was pretty snazzy if I do say so myself and will do a much better job of keeping her whole body warm rather than just one little area of one tiny finger. All the hens around here seemed to be blown away that I was able to purchase such an elegant gift all by myself. I believe this is what's known in the biz as a "back-handed compliment." While it's a relief to know that they are quite certain of my raging heterosexuality and masculinity, sad they thought me some sort of cro-magnon man whose idea of a thoughtful gift was a Hooters calendar and gift certificate combo. Obviously, that's more a Valentine's type gift.

I suppose the happiest and bestest news to come out of those missing months was that the new year will bring new life to my inner circle. Much to all our delight, my close, personal friend, MB, managed to get herself knocked up by dear hubby, Gustav. Well done, sir. An addition is always a joyous occasion if for no other reason than the chance for me to name yet another character in this saga. World, please welcome Baby EZ, who, barring a terrible ultrasound picture, will be a girl.

I was initially worried about the matronly MB, but she seems to be adjusting to being in the family way quite nicely. Updating me on the situation last night, she had decided that she didn't want Baby EZ to be a "pink tutu girl" though quickly adding, "Unless she wants to." I thought that seemed very motherly. Of course, I tried to act like I knew what a "pink tutu girl" and offered solidarity because tutus are clearly part of the communist plot and must be stopped.

Realizing that today's toys, devices, etc. can quickly become tomorrow's clutter, MB admitted that they were trying not to buy too much stuff for Baby EZ. Good thinking, that. But not content she continued, denouncing strollers "prams, carriages or whatever you call them" pretentious. She further declared that said contraptions were too big, ergo she'll forgo one for a sling. Personally, I'm holding out for a papoose, but I digress.

She'll not get much argument from me on the size point, though I assured her that for all their size, strollers are really rather portable since all the space-age polymers and such used therein are quite foldable. Childless that I may be, I do keep up with those advancements that make modern life easier, especially any that transport wee ones. I also strongly advised her to reconsider purchasing, making a mental note that MB's gift subscription to Parents probably should be fast-tracked. I keed.

But as for the pretentious bit, this is unique to MB. And by unique I mean, she's the first person in the history of the world to ever offer hold such a position. Of that I am quite certain and was therefore quite intrigued; I couldn't help but ask for clarification. It seems that after test-driving (test-pushing?) several models she couldn't shake the notion that she was just a little girl playing Mommy with her doll and couldn't get comfortable. It seemed a bit late in the day to point out that this was sort of the not-so-subtle point of all that childhood preconditioning with dolls, etc. that she skipped by dressing in black and reading Camus from age 3, but whatever.

Also, MB finds the multiple cup-holders, all-terrain traction and wi-fi capabilities a bit unnecessary. At this distance, that seems a fair point. Hopefully, she'll won't decide otherwise when she's bogged down in the mud, three miles from home with Baby EZ, her bottle of soy milk and her cup of whole wheat, organic cheerios desperately trying to find out what happened on last night's Grey's Anatomy. But that's probably a ridiculous notion. No one cares what happened on Grey's Anatomy anymore.

The whisper of epithets

My Facebook account has been acting rather strange for the past couple of days. This is hardly cause for an adjustment of the nation's DEF-CON status. However, it does, as the kids used to say, blow. (Pretty impressive I used 3 commas in a 10-word sentence, no?) Though I'm generally not too keen on fads or what keeps contemporary minds afloat, I have become somewhat enamored with Facebook. Sure, we can lament how it has replaced actual, meaningful contact between friends and family, but I suppose any contact is better than nothing. And the stinker in me can't help taking devilish delight in giving totally random, absurd "updates" to friends waiting for some bit of self-insight or reflection.

Back in the 20th century, we had to actually attend family reunions and class reunions for the awkwardness unique to seeing people you sort of know but not really and probably spent the interim between meetings devising ways to avoid those very people. Now we can just click "add as friend" and never give them another thought. Your unknown relative/forgotten friend day will probably be brightened thinking you're really interested in what he/she has been up to all this time. You'll feel good in knowing you gave the appearance of caring but didn't actually expend any energy. Everybody wins.***

But as for now, I can't do anything like that. Every time I try to log on I get a slightly different message telling me that my account is temporarily unavailable. Try again in a few minutes. While this is likely due to some aspect of the communist conspiracy and general effort to keep a brother down, it has the ultimate effect of keeping me uniformed. And since news cycles, even personal ones, are so quick these days, there is no telling what I have missed. I fear I will now be on the outside looking in as new references and inside jokes are made amongst folks whom I've known for far too long. This has caused great consternation.

Damn you, Facebook. Damn you all to Hell.

Until you get this ship righted and I'm back in the chosen fold, of course.

***Understand this doesn't apply to my friends and relations on Facebook. You are all awesome in every way. I was just waiting all those years until something as mind-blowing as the internets to come along to make communication easier. What with the monopoly AT & T had on the phone service all those years, I thought of it as saving you a little scratch. And then all that food preparation that would have to be done for any reunions. And let's not even talk about the postal service.

A flat Earth calls for a flat hero

There's a children's book called Flat Stanley. I realize this news is most likely not a shock to the plugged-in readers of this particular site. I like to think that I'm with it as well. Alas, it would appear that I've let my plugged-in-edness lag a bit in the children's literature dept: I'd never heard of it.

Wikipedia says the book came out in the early 60s and since Wikipedia never lies, I'll defer to them and admit defeat. It goes without saying that I wasn't born yet so perhaps that will hold my excuse, however tenuous. The timeline of when Flat Stanley did or didn't come into being really has nothing to do with the rest of my tale so it's probably best just to move on.

In this book, there is a boy called, surprisingly enough, Stanley and through some sort of misfortune he ends up being flattened. Whether by a suitcase or a 10-ton weight or a piano or something, Stanley goes from being a rigid, normal boy to the malleable and paper thin fellow the so man schoolkids apparently love.

One would reckon this to be a somewhat traumatic situation for the little gent. That his family probably would require years of intense therapy resulting in hundreds of thousands of dollars in medical bills, and the very real possibility that the family would shatter. But since Stanley's family is made of stronger stock, and this is a children's book not a Lifetime movie starring Meredith Baxter-Birney, they made lemonade out of life's lemons.

Clever, if somewhat cruelly, his parents dub him Flat Stanley and discover he can fit in an envelope. While I'm not really sure how this problem or solution came up--again, I've not read the book--this eureka moments results in the newly christened Flat Stanley being sent sent all over the world. I suppose getting to see the world for the price of whatever a postage stamp goes for these days isn't that bad. But considering what Stanley's been through, it seems a little macabre that his parents immediately hatch a plan to send him as far away and as frequently as possible.

Of course, this may have been in their best interest as well. It seems rather likely that DFACS would start snooping around after hearing about a little boy getting flattened in his own home. The whole tale really doesn't suggest the best environment for child rearing, but I guess we're not really dealing within the confines of reality with this one.

Given the popularity of the book with everyone (except me, apparently) some ingenious soul, probably a teacher, decided kids might enjoy making their own Flat Stanleys and sending him all over the world. That way some do-gooder can take his picture in front of, say, Big Ben. The cynic in me can't help but think this is little more than a means to prop up our lagging postal service, but I'm sure the stated goals of the project are a bit more altruistic. Probably to promote peace, equality and acceptance of flat persons or some such. Maybe even teach kids that geography can be fun. I don't know.

What I do know is that this notion has become quite popular and folks seem to get awfully excited about getting the opportunity. Look at me, I've written an entire post on taking a picture with a paper cutout. (There should have been a spoiler alert before that last sentence. Oh, well.) But there's a web site devoted to all things Flat Stanley and his many travels and the people, famous and otherwise, he's met along the way. If, by chance, I've not gone into enough detail about this whole business or you really need to see Dave Matthews shaking hands with one Stanley, then head on over there now. Don't worry, I'll wait.

Thanks to a cousin from somewhere other than here, Saturday night was my turn. Figuring that there was no better place to be than the Georgia Tech-Virginia Tech game, we decided to take Stanley along. Since Tech is rather stringent on everyone having a ticket, Stanley was smuggled in. Quite probably I was the only fellow smuggling in something other than a potent potable, but I felt no less rebellious. "Power to the people" being one of Stanley's less popular credos. As I get more set in my ways, my civil disobedience gets tamer and tamer. Or lamer and lamer.

So with Tech leading 7-3 at halftime and figuring the ushers were on a smoke break, I felt the time was right for Stanley to make his appearance. I realize that the average person probably would feel a bit stupid doing such things in any situation, let alone a football game. However, I love the children and believe they are our future and gladly obliged.


Afterwards, I didn't have the heart to fold Stanley up and send him back into the pocket of my Dad's seat cushion. My Dad's a nice guy and all, but I really wouldn't want to smell his ass for 3 hours and can't imagine a piece of paper would either. So I tucked Stanley in between my sweater and there he stayed for the rest of the match.

Stanley watched the contest amazed that an otherwise sensible 30-something would assign feelings to a cutout when Stanley's own parents clearly didn't seem to care to begin with. There's probably a lesson in there somewhere, but who cares Tech won. The real Tech, that is. Georgia Tech.