To All Seasons, An End.

Two significant parts of my life came to an end this past week with the U.S.'s World Cup and the first season of Treme coming to an end. Both had tremendous build-up, moments of glory and mixed feelings. So, in the name of conflagration and journalism's grandest tradition, let's take a look back at two completely unrelated items in a forced metaphor. Bob Bradley, meet Big Chief Albert Lambreaux. Clint Dempsey, get your hands off Janette Desautel, you greedy bastard. Davis McAlary's passing a joint to Landon, who's been crying in the corner all night. Wait, who the fuck invited Bill and Mick? Shit's about to get out of hand.

There's a moment when Sonny goes to Houston to sit-in with some other New Orleans players who are doing a session at a roadhouse. He plays one song, they thank him and ask him to move over. Somebody else wants the seat for the next one.

"But I can carry it."

"That's alright, man. Thanks for sitting in."

Sonny steps back into the crowd and watches as his replacement and the rest of the band lays into "At the Foot of Canal Street." It was at that moment that Sonny knew he didn't really belong. He probably knew all along, but this was the visual proof. It's not because of some cruel twist of fate or evil forces working against him. It's not because he didn't work hard enough or didn't have the will to get it done, he just was not on that level.

Watching quarterfinal games on Friday was that moment for U.S. Soccer. We tap danced on the guardrail and had some good moments in the bramble of group play. The good teams are just trying to scrape by. The bad teams are just trying to put bodies in front of the goal to hang on for a draw. In the middle, teams like the U.S. split the difference. The result is a random madness of deflections, own goals and penalties. The outcomes seem more like happy accidents than decisive conclusions, and it's understandable how people can become frustrated with it.

The knockout round is almost a completely different sport. The kids have been sent home and it's time for the adults to go to work. Brazil and the Dutch played beautiful football. And not just beautiful in the "beautiful game" context of finesse and showmanship. It was complete. They were hardnosed when necessary, dirty at moments, and most of all, turning chaos into stunning order that, after it's over, seems like the build-up was all part of some masterplan. It's Van Morrision singing "Cypress Avenue" after sitting through some local wedding cover band sing "Brown Eyed Girl." There's a loose association, but vastly different tiers of performance.



That's not to say that the U.S. didn't accomplish anything. We won the group, showed competence and played with gritty pride, none of which are givens when it comes to American soccer. Playing a game to put out the last African nation in the first African soil Cup brings a lot of bad juju. But it wasn't ancient black arts or continental terroir that brought us down (though I do put some blame on the very presence of Terry McAulfie and the stench of loserdom that trails behind him like a sulfurous cropdusting).

The African teams have a reputation not all that different than Louisiana football-- unbridled athleticism that tries to overwhelm with sheer size, speed and attitude with no shape, direction or strategy. But if you can contain it, bring order without killing the joy, it can be a legitimate force.

But that wasn't Ghana. They put together an organized, thoughful game that left our players playing chase for the majority of the match. That crazy Serbian door-to-door encylopedia salesman with the loosened tie and the confused look has done a job on par with Nick Saban in Baton Rouge. They looked even more the polished, professional squad in their next game against an equally organized Uruguay. They belong.

More than anything else, this U.S. team gave us shared moments. The moments when you're clutching an American flag in one hand, with your fingertips dug into the shoulder of the stranger next to you. For waning minutes at the end of the Algeria game, the country was united under the right foot of Landycakes. Shared desperation can bring an energy. It was talked about in New Orleans immediatley after the storm, there was almost a brotherhood among everybody who was left. We're all up againt the same wall, but the fact that we're all still standing is an impressive accomplishment. But when that adrenaline wears off and you realize you're still standing in the same place against the same wall, it's a fast decline. It's time to either move forward or fall down.

Your keeper in the opposing team's box is the physical manifestation of desperation. It means the good ideas have run out. All that's left to do is throw everything you've got into the breach and hope the confusion is enough to disrupt the logic's foot on your throat. Against Ghana, Tim Howard was the human kitchen sink, hurling itself headfirst into the ball. It was time to go home

But there's more than one way to handle the revelation that you don't belong. Sonny realized he couldn't create, so he self-destructed and went Berman on some leather at a shady bar. But then there's Davis. And if there's any reason for Sonny to exist on Treme, it's to serve as comparison for Davis. Like most everybody at the start of the show, I was annoyed by Davis. I understood his purpose and what he represented in the New Orleans eco-system, but still cringed every time I saw him on screen...that is until they start to develop Sonny. Davis is a loveable tag along. Sonny is a leach, and that's an important distinction that gives Davis a new nobility. There was a time when Davis and Kermit Ruffins were peers, but Davis got left behind. Instead of getting moody about his short-comings, he becomes a fan, even pushing Kermit further. "America needs it some Kermit. You're standing there telling me all you want to do is get high, play some trumpet and barbeque in New Orleans your whole life?" ("Sounds good to me.") Sonny just slunk off into the dark and tried to take Annie down with him, rather than letting her outshine him.

So where do we go from here? Sonny would spit on the ground, comment on how soccer sucks anyway and go watch some Nascar. Don't do that. Be a Davis. Be an appreciator and take joy in the extraordinary, even when you're not directly invovled. This is when it gets good.

Fight for What's Right. Fight for Your Life.

I'm going to yell at the television today. Like a senile cat lady watching Family Feud re-runs (Richard Dawson years). I can't help it. It's not just the World Cup itself, although that would normally be damn well enough. John Wooden, the last honest man in all of sports passed on, and world has been burning in the white hot lava fire of rebirth ever since. Tuberville might have finally hit 88 mph and corrected his national championship resume. Mitch Mustain hitched a ride with a skateboard and Delorean bumper grab and could once again reunite with Capt. Gustav Malzahn Nemo. Big Baby is a legitimate post-season NBA player. Texas is now all but part of the Pacific coast, for Christ's sake.

The plates have collided. Somebody crossed the streams. And this frenzy has all built into the pleasant hum of a thousand dying emus and the World Cup starting up in frickin Africa. In this time of continental shift, the only thing left is for the United States to feel the power of love and dial it back to 1950 for a win over the Brits at their own game.

Everything I know about South Africa, I learned from watching Lethal Weapon 2. So naturally, I assume all the people in charge look like Hans from the Mighty Ducks. They are assisted by Aryan women and all financial transactions are conducted with a swift Busey roundhouse to the back of the head solid gold Krugerrand in the manner that God and Ron Paul intended. However, apparently a few things have changed since Riggs and Murtaugh ended apartheid and my "See Sun City" brochure may no longer be an accurate representation of the country.

The first modern day developing world World Cup gives a certain air of unpredictability. It doesn't feel quite right. The plates are shifting again, and this thing might not be entirely stable. And when the ground starts shaking, there's no better opportunity for the chess club champion to grab the prom queen, find a structurally sound doorway and go at it like the walls are about to come down.

If I had written this 6 days ago, I would have told you this-- we have absolutely no shot. The problems that were there at the beginning of qualifying two years ago are still there. We can't hold possession. We have trouble with creativity on the attack. Robbie Findley doesn't have the ability to move laterally. But most of all, our defense is a disorganized mess.

God love Jay DeMerritt. He's a hard-nosed, scrappy player who clearly loves the game, but he directs the defense like a Viking horde chasing a chicken. I don't even know what that means, but it's a mental image that seems to fit. No shortage of bloodlust or aggression, but just a mob-style pile of dust, flailing feet, facial hair and Tim Howard, our Tourette's-inflicted goalie, screaming wild obscenities in the background. Australia is not a good team. They probably won't make it out of their group play, but if they had had Wayne Rooney on loan for our game, they would've put six goals on us. We have some skill in some key places, but on the whole, our squad doesn't stack up to a world class side. In a stagnant world, we don't have a chance.

But, man. A lot's happened since last Saturday morning and today's world is anything but stagnant. And when times seem their most uncertain, there's no better opportunity to take something that you normally wouldn't have.

Later the same day of the Australia game, I sat in Levon Helm's house, drank a fifth of whiskey and heard the man sing Rag, Mama Rag. Shit happens in America. Beautiful, amazing shit. Glory, glory hallelujah. On the ride home the next day, two things rang in my head-- the dull bells of brown liquor hangover and the pounding drum of foolish pride.

Since then, I've awoken every morning to blaring James Brown and gone to bed to the Taps of the Top Gun theme, and it's built.

We're America. We're going to fucking win. We're going to cockpunch those limey bastards, and we're going to do it because of, not in spite of, our being completely outclassed. They're the pedigree. The royalty. The world soccer aristocracy. And just like the monarchy of old, they've collapsed under the weight of their own crown, thin bloodline and irrational belief in the power of one set of genetics. We're the muts. Clint Dempsey learned the game from the illegal immigrant children who played in the street in front of his Texas trailer park. Jozy Altidore is a the Jersey-born son of Haitian immigrants. Jose Torres scalped Eric Estrada for good luck and hasn't looked back since. Herculez Gomez has two z's in his name. These are our boys, and if you don't see us in them, you need to turn off Glenn Beck and really look at the history of who we are. We're team Zissou. Klaus used to be a bus driver. Wolodarsky was a substitute teacher. We're a pack of strays.

How does that add up to victory? Fuck if I know, but I believe it does. So, crank up the patriotic rock of your choice (except for Lee Greenwood, who is a war profiteer, child molester and Dutch football supporter), crack open two cans of exceptionally cold, incredibly affordable and unrepentenly mediocre beer, smack them together and poor them down your face. Gameday's come to June for one month, and month only, we here at the Sons of Caine are proud to be with the Yanks.

Heaven Is Whenever

"I just can't sympathize with your rock and roll problems. Isn't this what we wanted?" - "Rock and Roll Problems"

First of all, I miss Franz. Levon said it best, "The bigger the band, the better is sounds to my ear." Franz was essentially the bigger band rolled into one package of romp, velvet pants and mustache wax. He left the band shortly into the recording of Heaven Is Whenever, saying:

"They have their one big idea-- making literate, wordy lyrics over big anthemic rock-- and the last two records were about as good as I felt like we could do with that."

Little known fact, Franz is also Bazil Shabazz's evil doppleganger. The Wario to Bazil's Mario.

The problem with geniuses is that they have trouble sitting still (one of the many obvious indicators and I am not, nor will ever be one). This kind of creative itch is what side projects were made for. But for a band on the level of The Hold Steady, they have to tour constantly to make the numbers work, which doesn't lend a lot of time to Vaudevillian side bands with tap-dance interludes. Franz clearly appreciates the value of the big idea of Hold Steady, but I think he overestimates the band's accomplishment and underestimates the depth of that one big idea. If Franz had been George Washington Carver, he would've boiled a peanut, decided it was good and called it day. Mmm. Boiled peanuts.

It's hard to overstate what a multi-instrumentalist can do for a sound-- especially in a band with the religious themes of The Hold Steady. If you're going to bring the sermon, you better damn sure bring the organ. But it was more than that. In a world of drums and guitars, it's amazing what an extra sound can do for creating an instant mood within a song. The harmonica for the country, mournful or stomping. A mandolin is a sweetness and a sharpness. Spoons for a goofy, low-rent gait second only to the cowbell. Then, there's the chronically under-utilized accordian. Unfairly banished to polka sideshows in ethnic beerhalls, it's making a slow comeback into coolness. Franz owns three. And you certainly can't discount the value of a good, weird, falsetto high-harmony in the background vocals.

This is not to say that The Hold Steady doesn't or can't exist without Franz, but they do have to fill the gaps. That's maybe the most interesting thing about this album. By leaving because of lack of room to grow, Franz may actually force the band to noticeably evolve, but evolve within the scope of that one "big idea."

"There was that whole weird thing with the horses. I think they know exactly what happened. I don't think it takes any explaining." - "The Weekenders"

Enough about what's missing, let's talk about what's still there. Craig Finn can still turn a phrase, tell a story, give a sermon, bring a simple truth and make absolutley no sense whatsoever. The songs are absolutely there. What Finn does better than anyone else is being constantly self-referential without being reptitive or inaccessible. Each song stands on it's own, but also fits into a larger continuing narrative. The band's past albums aren't prequisities in the way Alegra is to Calculus, but compliments. It adds depth and rewards your curiosity, and it's what makes a thing stand up over time. You can enjoy it in a vaccum, but the more you dig into the context and see it as part of a bigger universe, the more interesting it becomes.

You don't have to have listened to Chips Ahoy! to enjoy The Weekenders. It's a wink to the existing fanbase. "Hey, we know you. Thanks for coming back." And for new fans, it's a future moment of recognition. After they've been through Heaven Is Whenever a few times, they go back and listen to Boys and Girls In America and make the connection. Now, they're on the inside of a joke that was pretty good even from the outside. There are a hundred of those moments throughout the band's catalogue.

"Gonna make like a pre-emptive strike, hit the 5:30 mass every Saturday night." - "Our Whole Lives"

It's the rock show with driving hooks and story songs straight out of Warren Zevon's playbook. Hurricane J is the girl you can't save without changing everything you love about her. We Can Get Together about people who only communicate indirectly through pop culture and music references (sounds familiar). And then the celebrations and consequences of the cycle of self-destruction that are the core of any Hold Steady album so far. Increasingly, the voice is of an older brother trying to give a lesson of experience-- though he slips from the message of warning to remember the good times on a dark road in a way that you know even he hasn't quite decided if it was worth it or not.

Even without Franz, it's still the Steady. It's still among the best rock out there, and nobody else is doing quite the same thing.

How the Grinch Stole Decoration Day

In the spirit of the holidays, I was thinking about the Grinch and came to a conclusion-- the Grinch is a hillbilly. Just a guy, living on the mountain, odd hair, strange mannerisms, a pot belly and good dog. Just wants to be left alone. And then the Whoville sprawl starts to inch in and, subdivision by subdivision, he's unwillingly pushed into civilized society with it's noise, decadence and expectations of a white-washed normalcy that doesn't include walking around pantsless on the mountainside. And with his back against the wall, he reacts poorly. So, in the Truckers tradition of writing songs from the point of view of a misunderstood victim of history, here is Decoration Day in the voice of the Grinch:

It's Decoration Day.

And I've got a mind to take a piss on his sleigh.

What would he say?

"Boy, your tinkle just won't keep my jingle away."

It's Decoration Day.

As those bastards below start to sing and to sway

It's driving me slowly insane.

But I'll take a big shit on their fine Christmas Day.

I never knew how it all got started

the size of my shoes or the way I was born

and I don't know the name of that reindeer I found

and beat till he just couldn't fly anymore.

But I know it's cold here on Mt. Crumpit's crest,

as those Whos drink and dance by their fires.

Their noise fills my cave as I try just to rest

with my dog and my still and my will to survive.

The kids all wait for Saint Nick to come by

as I sit with my shine and my gun.

I would shoot his fat ass right out of the sky

and mount Rudolph's rack when I'm done.

Instead I dress all in red just like Santa had wore

and head down to Whoville myself.

I'll clean out their homes from the roof to the floor

and I'll send all their stockings to Hell.

It's Decoration Day

And I've loaded their shit on the back of my sleigh

as the sun rises on Christmas Day.

The Who children will cry as I gallop away.

Cause I ate their Who-pudding and I smoked their Who-hash

and I stole all their presents and I burned all their trees.

When they tear open their shutters and throw up their sash

My green ass is all that they'll see.

It's Decoration Day.

I sit and look down on the damage I've made

And they celebrate in spite of my raid.

But I'll fight till the last Grinch's last Christmas Day.

I'll fight till the last Grinch's last Christmas Day.

"I didn't see it, but it sure sounded beautiful."

So says Jevan Snead about the Golden Tips of Dexter McCluster taking a slip screen to the house while Snead was face down in the turf. Jevan found his talent, and Houston Nutt has rediscovered his magical play-calling silver platter buried under the stack of autographed Sports Illustrated preview issues on his desk. After cursing Houston for leaving it collecting dust for almost an entire year, the Silver Platter of the Sacred Grove screamed "GET THE BALL TO THAT LITTLE BASTARD WITH THE GOLDEN TIPS!"



Tyrone Nix called a masterful mix of blitz packages that kept the happy feet of the 8 Mile stepping and the balls sailing. And as if that weren't enough, Nix snuck into Greg Hardy's dorm room the night before, stole Hardy's Hannah Montana: Best of Both Worlds DVD and then blamed it on Mallett, because as has been pointed out, he looks like a guy who might do such a thing. It adds a whole other level of fear and confusion when the 275 lb future first round draft pick is screaming "GIVE ME BACK MILEY!" as he comes barreling after you (referencing Hardy's quote earlier this week about renting a Miley Cyrus movie...link to come, hopefully).

Next week, Auburn. And what Basil and the rest of the Arkansas fan base will say (when they finally regain their faculties from yesterday), is that this is the classic recipe for a Houston Nutt letdown game. Coming off a great win and thoughtful coaching, the Nutt teams lose focus against lesser opponents and have a hard time maintaining success. I don't know if I'm buying that. Last year, when Jevan's light finally come on, he kept it going for most of the rest of the season. There's no reason to believe our defense has shown any sign of let-up and could actually get better if our offense can start to put up early leads and force opposing teams into more obvious passing situations. Not saying I'm not a little worried about a dropped game next week, Auburn's still an SEC team playing at home. I still have some belief that Gus Malzahn is competent and perhaps genius offensive mind (though he's working with somebody else's parts at the moment). It could very well all come crashing down, but right now, all is right with the world and we're on our way to a mildly satisfying 10-win season. On that note, I give you a beautiful woman singing a badass song. There is probably more football from yesterday to discuss, but the radiance of the Golden Tips prevents me from acknowledging any of it at the moment.

Bombs and Screens (Nobody's Darlings)

The shine is off and now we find ourselves back where we're most comfortable-- lost in the middle of the SEC pack somewhere behind more established powers, playing the early morning lo-fi undercard and our off-field eccentricities getting the bulk of the media play. Nobody really knows where we fit into the fray, but it's clear we're neither leading the back or bringing up the rear.

It's been said by more than a few of my fellow Ole Miss fans that this game is where we'll find out what we are. The same was said for South Carolina. And Alabama. A win, and we're back on track to a 10 or 9 win campaign, another step forward from last January's high and respectable postseason bid. Lose, and we're back in Shreveport playing $5 blackjack with stretch-marked cocktail waitresses wondering if this is all there is for us and cursing our foolish delusions of grandeur.

The biggest problem anybody has is when you start to believe the things other people say about you, good or bad. An outside voice that lends validity to your own wild fantasy/paranoia can be more an incredibly dangerous thing. We've had both. In a vacuum, all Ole Miss fans always harbor wild hopes of a return to glory and prominence, shedding the weight of the past and rising back to national relevance. In the same soaked corner of your brain is the idea that we're the fuck-up sons in a prominent family, and we should be grateful that our more accomplished relations allow us to sit at their table and share their affiliation. What gets expressed will generally trend toward whatever side of the thought process the outside world lends the most credence to. I feel like that's where the Ole Miss and Arkansas fanbases come together, and it's what makes our shotgun rivalry of Houston Nutt-dom so interesting.

What we both need to realize is that, in the end, we'll be judged on our results and any success we have will be on our own backs. It needs to be a trench warfare mentality. Nobody's got our backs. Nobody really believes in us. Somebody's got to be built up so that they can be torn down, and we're useful for that purpose on occasion. But we're nobody's darlings, and what success we have is our own. Fuck everything else.


Everybody wants to see you fall. That's why they always love to get you high.


The Arkansas defense seems to have taken steps forward and the Ole Miss offense seems to have taken steps back. But what has Arkansas done? They've been steamrolled by Alabama like everybody else. They put up a decent fight against an Auburn offense that has since been shown to be lacking and kicked the bones of the elephant graveyard in the Big 12 against Texas A&M. Even the Florida offense has looked uninspired thus far (though it needs to be noted that the same could be said about Florida at this time last year). Their safeties still suck. Their linebackers are athletic and aggressive but don't possess a great deal of sense or discipline. They live off of blind pressure and a prayer of deep inaccuracy.

Florida lived off the screens for what success they had on offense. Georgia lived off of blindly heaving the ball down the field in hopes that the safeties were out of position. Nobody has combined both approaches, but we've got the tools to do it. Let Grandy, Pat Patterson, Lionel Breaux loose down the damn field and tell Opie to chuck the fucking ball. When you run, run hard, quick and between the tackles. When you throw, throw deep. When Jerry Franklin has a boner through his football pants, screen.

Our defense is nothing short of greasy, swaggering violence second only to Alabama in the SEC. Mallett does not handle pressure, and as Kentrell Lockett has astutely pointed out, he'll generally be right where you think he is. "When you get there, he'll be there." Arkansas has put up numbers against crappy defenses and folded spectacularly when somebody has gotten in their face.

The only outside voice I believe is the blind voice of money. People in Vegas know things. I've learned this the hard way during darker times. And the business community, who has no interest in our hype or deflation outside of cold calculus, still believe we're a decent team playing another decent team on our home field and have apportioned a healthy 6.5 point margin in our favor. This gives me more hope than anything else. Vegas cares not for storylines or student section chants or Heisman fluffer missions. It's a weigh and measure in the true sense of the word.

Tomorrow comes early. See you kids out there.

Throw Some Sawdust On It, Worry About It Later

There was a guy I went to college with who was affectionately known as The Custodian, because he would pick up what others left behind. There was no reason for it. He could stand on his own and hold his weight on the normal market when he was so inclined, but always slipped back into the slop. After a while, he almost preferred it in a weird way.

How did he get there? I'm sure at one point he had a crisis of confidence and resorted to what has now commonly come to be known as a slumpbuster. You justify the step down as a temporary fix in a hard stretch, and then you'll return to your normal standards once times get flush again. But it doesn't always work the same for everybody and every time you go back down the ladder, it gets harder to build up the will to crawl back up. Kind of how Hawaiians developed a taste for SPAM out of necessity, but then kept on eating it. Decades after the shortages of war have ended, they're still confusing it for a delicacy. Now they're standing in an Oahu supermarket with a ribeye in one hand and a tin can of processed meat in the other with a legitimate crisis of indecision. After a while, they quit even picking up the steak and head straight for the comfort and ease of the scrub.


In the case of the Custodian, mix in a natural tendency toward the thickness, and he was screwed with the first hit. So it is with Ole Miss and UAB. We came down a step and took care of business for business's sake. The important thing is not to get to the point where you start to confuse a stopgap for an actual solution. If you're not careful, your whole life can slip into one long slumpbusting session. What happened last night against UAB was fine. We slapped it to watch it roll, and that's all well and good. Just don't start to think it was an actual conquest, and let's jump back up the ladder next week. Speaking of next week:

Let's put one last stamp on the theme started on Friday of war songs for the Arkansas/Florida game...

"I hope you died quick, and I hope you died clean. Oh Basil Shabazz, was it slow and obscene?"

Oh sure, pick on the kicker with the funny name. Or the refs. Or The Divine Tebow. Here's the cold truth for the Hog Nation-- Your defense laid down a valiant performance to keep it close and then you were foiled by poor quarterback play in the clutch and bad special teams...sound familiar? And there wasn't a Dick or Nutt in sight. Last season, Houston took his underdog team into the Swamp under impossible odds, played them close...and came away with a win. Just saying.

Ryan 8 Mile Mallet is a good quarterback, but he got the happy feet once again under pressure and air mailed what should have been touchdowns on at least two occasions. But that's cool, let's pound on the kicker. Though an Arkansas fan did sum up their new quarterback pretty well when he said, "Ryan Mallet looks like a guy who would break into your house and steal your DVDs." Yep. It's going to be a good week on the blog.

Other thoughts:

Auburn/Kentucky- This is really inconvenient from a blogging standpoint. Last week, I developed this whole idea of Gus Malzahn as the wronged genius of Captain Nemo about to go on a tour of a unexpected revenge on the world that did him wrong...then they lose to Arkansas in a game where the offense was average at best (though it might be time to re-examine how we feel about a Hog defense that looks much improved since the Georgia game). Then, this week, they only put up 14 points at home in a loss to Kentucky. It was going to be a great running joke for the season and now, just ruined. The Nautilus had to turn back shortly after leaving port because of an overflowing toilet- it's always the small details that get you. Such a shame. There was so much good blogging that could've been done here, up to and including rewriting the Kirk Douglas "Whale of a Tale" song from the perspective of Houston Nutt.



OU/Texas- At Gameday, several proud Oklahomans displayed a sign saying "Keep Norman Normal." During one night in Austin, I almost broke my leg after falling out of a homemade bunk while making out with a girl dressed (or half dressed) as Maverick from Top Gun. This was in April. This pretty much sums up why I have to support the Horns in this game. In my mind, the state of Oklahoma represents all that is wrong with the disturbing American glorification of mediocrity that seems to have only gained momentum in the past decade. In Austin, you might stumble into weird gender-bending role playing with a classic 80s cinema character before ejecting from a hastily-crafted temporary sleeping surface. And yeah, shit might get weird and you might get hurt, but at least you won't be in Norman hoping the biscuits are fresh at the Shoney's breakfast buffet.