Old friends, new complications

Founder Mark Zuckerberg knows a sure thing. We love, love Facebook. Easy, convenient and addictive, more than 350 million of us are connecting and sharing (sometimes a little too much). That's enviable market penetration for a 2004 start-up.

Part of the love affair can be attributed to the heady sense of connection we feel. A glance at our friends list reconfirms our sense of self - our desirability as a friend, an acquaintance, as someone.

Who can forget the obsessive need to hothouse your friends tally upon opening a new account? And the greater your need to grow your share, the more you spread the Facebook love.

It's the business genius behind social media - in order to use it, you have to spread it. You want growth? Go viral.

The possibility of being the person we never really became is especially intoxicating for GenXers and 'Boomers. From old friends to new, we explore our online personality with more gusto, whim and candour than real life.

It's hands-down the space for pithy one-liners. Everyone's currency is cool. We are audience-focused like never before - tuned in to our own broadcasts, with one eye on the ratings and the other on the players.

Like jumping rope, we gauge the rhythm before plunging in. Threads are a great place to start. Joining in on a happening thing seems less gauche online.

Starting your own thread can be risky, though. There's nothing sadder than a lone comment - flower boxes potted amongst the conversation express ways. It's a lot like watching your plate remaining untouched at a 'bring a plate' gathering, only there's no distancing yourself from the shame when your every offering is branded.

Facebook also satiates our voyeuristic urges. Who hasn't trolled the pics, bios and musings of 'friends'? We can gawk unashamedly, sifting through their posts, links and attachments in a way that would feel immoral (if not illegal) in real life - think school reunion with x-ray vision.

But all this online camaraderie and bonhomie among old friends and new can also engender much handwringing.

Pithy one-liners and candid opinions are all very clever on screen, but with non-verbal cues comprising more than 70% of any given interpersonal communication, there's more than a little room for emotional slippage.

It's compounded by our often misguided sense of just how well we know our friends; the ring-ins on our very own Facebook popularity poll. When we strip our language bare and throw in our every unprocessed thought, we sometimes get it wrong.

Turns out that 'friend' you hung out with every weekend back in the day, well... you grew up to be different people, yet you expect to connect like old times about new things.

It seems there's precious little latitude when you can't show the care. Ultimately, meaningful relationships need to have a little one-on-one time to flourish.

And what of the rush of instant messaging between old buddies reunited? Well, that too falls away. Net result? You've just sent 20 minutes worth of typing into the ether that was probably better spent.

At least you're not alone.

Play the game

In the leafy suburbs a high-shine SUV lets out a clutch of children in the muted greys and elegant burgundies of the best private schools.

It's a dime-a-dozen scene with a brazen twist. You see, behind the bespoke eye-wear, the driver owes money - a lot - and in an elite school community, there's no getting away from your creditors.

While clever lawyers and watertight trusts keep these children at school, others - classmates even - have had to don the piled Polartech of public schools.

But it's water off a croc's back when your liquidator's official non-secured creditors list is four A4 sides of 10 point type. You get kind of used to keeping eyes front, while former colleagues, business associates and employees falter on the periphery.

It's the same kind of assumed nonchalance that gets you through all those meetings where you swear black and blue on the solvency of your business - right up until the answer phone kicks in for good.

It's the same kind of mettle that's behind your lawyer's letters to countless creditors telling them why you're with-holding payment for their crappy services/product.

It's beyond confidence.

New Zealanders like to think of themselves as an egalitarian lot. Playing fair is etched on the collective psyche. So it grates when people don't play the game. Bare-faced lies are hard to swallow.

The unceremonious bursting of New Zealand's housing bubble has provided many a good tale of fast property developers in even faster cars going belly up, only to leave everyone else paying the price.

Home-ownership is almost a rite of passage here, although economic and social commentators predict a shift away from the Kiwi quarter acre dream. It's increasingly unobtainable. Expressed as a percentage, home-ownership has 'slumped' to around 65%, down from the halcyon days of 85% plus, and is trending down.

But for a while there, things were buoyant - inflated. People made good, even the clichéd mum and dad property investors, with their negative gearing and number 8 wire approach to tenants.

Every builder had a "spec. house" on the go, and group housing companies smoothed concrete and rolled out pre-cut joinery like Subway sandwiches. Of course it had to give.

But it's inexcusable to deliberately take others down with you. There's trying to trade your way out of a hole, and then there's pulling a fast one.

We need businessmen and women to take on the risk of pumping the economic turbines, don't get me wrong. And it doesn't always work out, granted. But commissioning work around town days before the liquidator's notice hits the papers whilst giving personal assurances about the business' ability to pay, well, that's something else.

No wonder people are aggrieved. No wonder out-of-pocket creditors took matters into their own hands with a neighbourhood letterbox drop - a look who's moved in type expose.

And no wonder the object of their derision ran straight to the lawyers to shut it down with threats of defamation fired into the offenders' inboxes. Such righteous indignation is all part of the show.

What recession?

31,700 Goldman Sachs employees are about to receive the largest employee bonuses in the company's 140-year history. With an estimated average end-of-year payout of more than US$700k each, it's a great time to be part of the firm's remuneration fund.

But what about the trillions of dollars poured into Wall Street bailouts by American taxpayers? What about the global surge of unemployment, mortgagee sales and business collapses? What about the G20 summit calling for restraint within the financial services industry?

It's business as usual in the capital and money markets, and Goldman Sachs is not alone. JP Morgan Chase and other Wall Street investment banks are collectively forecast to pay out a record US$140billion in bonuses this financial year.

Ironically, the very solutions to alleviate the collapse of the financial markets have cleared the way for an even more lucrative playing field. Market rationalisation, public rescue packages and government guarantees have excited investors. Secondary debt markets are hives of activity, with investment banks clipping the ticket on every trade.

Have we learned nothing off the back of the worst financial meltdown since the Great Depression of the 1930s?

Stephen Learner, a campaigner on financial issues for the US Service Employees International Union says it's both absurd and obscene.

"The same guys who crashed the economy and got bailed out by taxpayers are now giving themselves even bigger bonuses than before they crashed the economy."

For the favoured few, it's a case of: "What recession?" But the vast majority, the ordinary folk around the world, have endured a much tougher time, with many commentators warning it's not over yet. And certainly, if current Wall Street activity is anything to go by, we may yet slide back into the economic abyss.

The old regimes are alive and kicking with parasitic resilience. The sub-prime mortgage collapse was just a symptom. The real issue is the continued commoditisation of equities and securities, where financial houses reward the next bright young thing for coming up with new ways to interpret the rules and regulations - pushing the envelope with dubious hedge funds and doubtful debt securities.

Stock markets are played like a marionette, with market analysts from a handful of elite banks yanking the strings to encourage activity - any activity, up or down, - it's all about the number of trades.

And too many of us fall for it. It's greed, plain and simple.

Closer to home, there are personal stories of sacrifice and loss. Where real people have invested their life-savings in high-risk investment schemes, seduced by promises of crazy rates of returns - often backed by nothing more than a property developer's vision of a gated community in the South Pacific.

These are the stories that make the headlines - the David and Goliath hallmark of journalism. But what we don't hear about is the 'every day' operations of the capital and money markets - the name of the game and our place within in it.

Until we are prepared to concede our ignorance, focus on redressing our lack of knowledge and demanding a better, less hyped, more rigorous system; then we will continue to be at the mercy of the financial market leviathans - for our sense of well-being, our jobs, the roofs over our heads.

It all spins on their dime.

Heave to

Finance Minister Bill English says New Zealand will need to borrow $250million per week for the next four years (give or take) to stay afloat.

Interest payments alone are a bit wince-inducing, if you can get your head around all those zeros, and then there's the principal... I wonder, is it time to fly the coop and free-range in Oz?

But therein lies the rub.

If our middle-aged, middle earners keep fleeing, how on earth are we to afford 'New Zealand'? Who will pay the mortgage?

It's a big issue for a little country struggling to achieve critical mass in the desirable demographics. New Zealand has an hour-glass figure trending top-heavy with the aged. For a comparatively young nation, we're awfully matronly.

Our socio-political hope is that ex-pat desirables will heed the call of home, especially once they start nesting. But anyone over 20 who has contemplated a trip "home" often prefers the idealization to reality. Bedrooms are always smaller, beds even more so, and then there's the thorny issue of what to say.

Has New Zealand got the pull of the vitally attractive, or is it the nostalgic, sensible, comfortable option?

Well, if our current account is anything to go by, we need to start leveraging the former, and the global recession provides the perfect window.

A decent lifestyle is still pretty cheap here. But that's not enough. Successful, professional, over-achievers, the entrepreneurial movers and groovers, the seriously cashed-up - eventually, they'll want more than beer and bangers on the barbie. The need for self-actualisation will win out.

And this is where New Zealand's real opportunity lies. The world-weary wunderkind are tired of the old regimes.

The abitrary nature of capital markets has never been so exposed, where jumped-up Maserati driving, cut-throat razor shaved twenty and thirty somethings are left to play with the global economy; swarming around hedge-funds and frenzy-feeding off currency speculation. It's gambling for private school boys.

So let's not go down that track. Let's not trot along behind the big boys on our short, chubby toddler legs crying, "Wait for me".

Let's position ourselves as a start-up up-start - a great place for getting away from the BS and trying something new - something fresh and vital - authentic and organic.

Every day, New Zealanders are doing great things, and like attracts like. So it's time we got over the cultural cringe and made more noise. The desirable demographics need to see NZ as the new business frontier.

There are so many cool things going on that are the preserve of sub-cultural cliques. We need to mainstream these stories. It's a challenge for our tradtitional media who are myred in out-moded concepts of newsworthiness and blinded to all but their respective competitors' coverage of the same predictable news packages.

There's a growing awareness New Zealand is on the verge of something if we could only get it together. A Gladwellian 'tipping point' is what's needed, so heave to everyone. Shout out.

Our mortgage repayments depend on it.

Doing the iPod shuffle

Find your sound with Alpha 96.1 FM - surprisingly good student radio even if it is targeted at Gen Y males.

Yes, after three weeks of 12 hour plus days, the student team behind the Alpha concept has come up with the perfect programming for this Gen X female.

Busting out of my demographic profiling and leaping a whole generation, not to mention my gender straitjacket, this listener is digging fresh play-lists, minimal ads, and only the occasional DJ gaff.

Apparently, the quintessential Alpha male is a twenty-something, male accountant about to make his mark on the world - an interesting, if somewhat contradictory idea.

The programming concept is to channel said quintessential male's iPod - on shuffle. It's like, "pick and mix, only sweeter".

Nice insight - good territory.

The students' audience targeting is a bit light on the psychographics - user attitudes, behaviours and beliefs/values etc. But hey, they seem to have a clear idea of what's on the iPod - a bit of retro mashed up with a bit of now, minus the (overly) commercial "crap" - if not, whose iPod.

Artist integrity is paramount. "Selling out" is a sin (still). Think: Kings of Leon post 2003. Yeah, I know. Bad, huh?

And apparently, if you're a 40 year old woman chatting to a twenty-something chick, you're screaming "lezza", according to Tamsin, or Hendo or Kendall, or some such.

Makes me feel a tad creepy just listening in - like if they knew I was out there it would provoke much high pitched OMGing!!!!

Past-it suburban lezza stalks NZ Broadcasting School's student station... Hmm, scatter and scream, girls.

But just when the self-conscious seniors among us might start feeling like proverbial mutton chops getting on the DL with lamb tenderloins, there's this introduction explaining The Clash: "one of the original 'rock, punk' bands of the seventies".

And then, if that cute little mangling wasn't enough, the DJ chose Rock the Casbah.

Um, excuse me - screaming "sell out"! It's only the most mainstream of all Clash tracks - a little eighties earner for a band well used to top-shelf living.

Huh!

So thanks, Alpha, from those of us who remember the tunes the first time they spun the decks and cassette tapes, and who have continued to appreciate the good sounds of today.

It's a shame the party has to end come November.

Big ups and all that to a great little station that will definitely leave a gap in the local soundscape.

www.alpharadio.co.nz

Bad news dairy

I've done a bit of tut-tutting in my time. You know, oil companies tsk tsk - tobacco companies tut tut. Monsanto.

The sheer enormity of their crimes against humanity, against life just seem best left to onomatopoeia and a bit of selective rifling through the supermarket. And it's especially fraught when it all seems so "over there", so beyond the reaches of one semi-committed, often idealistic consumer from the soft suburban belly of New Zealand.

But I'm confronted. You see, we've got a dirty little secret over here. Fonterra.

Actually it's our best shot at a multi-national - a former producer board gone feral. Fonterra is to dairying what, well, monopolies are to any agricultural chain of production. Bad news.

They're out there encouraging Asian and sub-continent countries to embrace dairy clogged colons and various forms of digestive dis-ease, when most enlightened westerners are trying to work out just how the hell they became so alienated from real food.

They're also encouraging farmers to convert vast tracts of New Zealand land to dairy farms - requiring the clear felling of anything remotely green and over three inches tall, the criminal over-use of nitrate based fertilizers to assist marginal soils, and the pillage of water tables through monolithic irrigation systems. And then there's all the run off - nitrates, effluent - contaminating natural water systems with unmentionable froth and scum.

We call it dirty dairying, and more than 95% of all dairy production in New Zealand is now soiled.

But Fonterra is into vertical supply-chains and value-added products so the filth doesn't stop there.

Fonterra has gone into partnership with Wilmar, the world's largest grower and producer of palm-based animal feed and palm oil (think Indonsesia), to form RD1, which imports palm-based animal feed (PKE) to New Zealand as a supplementary feed for dairy herds. New Zealand imported 1.1 million tonnes of palm kernel in 2008, a staggering increase of approximately 2,700 fold since 1999.

Don't mention the strange plant life that is now sprouting around New Zealand dairy pastures thanks to all sorts of biosecirity hazardous residues in the feed. The offical line is how environmentally aware Fonterra is to mop up this waste by-product from the even more wasteful palm plantations.

And especially don't mention Fonterra's other joint venture partner, Chinese dairy company San Lu, and the contamination of the dairy protein lactoferrin - a key ingredient in infant milk formulas - with melamine. After the death of four Chinese infants from melamine poisoning and several more cases of serious illness, Chinese officials closed San Lu's doors.

Thanks to Fonterra, the industrialisation of dairy farming marches on with scant regard for New Zealand's clean/green global positioning, and to the shame of its inhabitants who happen to expect New Zesalanders and New Zealand companies to play fair on the global stage - to not replicate the excesses, greed and moral bankruptcy of the very worst multi-nationals.

Fonterra's corporate me-tooism is seemingly irreversible.

Forget currency as a fiscal benchmark, New Zealand measures economic prosperity by the $NZ per kg of milk solids. If Fonterra is on the make - we all are. And it's this insidious relationship betweem one dirty monopoly and an entire country's standard of living that means any hope of meaningful change is dashed.

Dairying needs to be re-regulated at Government level, but deep-pocketed Fonterra will ensure that any legislation passed will be amenable to it. If we were referring to a third world country, we'd bandy words around like "corruption" without hesitation. In the west, we opt for the far less confrontational euphemism - "lobbying".

One cop of this lot and Jamie Oliver and that blue blood bohemian Hugh whats-his-name from River Cottage will lob volleys of outrage over the equator, and quite so.

Forget air-miles, we've got greater travesties to tangle with.

So I'll get on with trying to source organic milk etc. with my green/blue coins. A task made that much harder since our local organic shop was sacrificed to the recession.

The closer to the bone...

If you've ever reassured yourself that real men don't like skinny Minnies; think again.

A magazine staffer wrote about her revealing weight loss experience in Madison magazine (Aug 09).

Jo* was around 1.55m tall and 55kgs - curvy but relatively slim and fit. Attractive, successful... all the desirable traits. But after a trip to Belize she began to experience rapid weight loss without dieting.

The compliments came thick and fast as her designer black pants slouched around her waist.

Her doctor attributed the loss to a complex blend of hypochondria, eating disorder and denial. He recommended she make friends with saturated fat. But despite taking pleasure in her shrinking girth, Jo had enough presence of mind to realise that without explanation, it was a concern.

As her weight loss rendered her runway model glam. co-workers began to interrogate her.

By the time she hit 43kgs and runway model succumbed to heroine chic, friendly banter became water-cooler vitriol as Jo's ever-decreasing BMI got political. How dare she have such a hot diet secret and not share! Maybe she's coke head...etc. etc.

Jo became distraught. But as her anxiety heightened, she began to experience a strange new phenomenon.

Men began to find her desperately attractive. From out of closets, young men, old men, rich men, cool men emerged from the shadows to hunt her down and hit on her. Notes, vmails, emails, txts, tweets and good old fashioned face to face one-liners; Jo was overwhelmed.

The skinnier she got the more she became the muse du jour for the average male's rescue fantasy. And Jo says there's a lot more of that going on than we've been led to believe.

While conventional social commentary shuns the toast-rack ribcages working international runways and Vogue et al. it seems these images have penetrated the psyche of some average Joes. And they like it.

So while it may not be mainstream hot yet, the next time I ask my guy that question, just part of me will wonder if, deep down, he really does prefer the startled gazelle look of the seriously underfed.

After all, as Louis Prima crooned (1952):

...Here's the reason I like 'em slim
Instead of big and fat.

The closest to the bone
The sweeter is the meat
The last slice of Virginia ham
Is the very best to eat
So don't talk about my baby
She's slender but she's sweet
The closest to the bone
The sweeter is the meat.


Oh, and Jo's rapid weight loss was eventually attributed to a nasty parasite. I guess some just like 'em sick.


* Not her real name.

Oh, please!

As if the indignities of motherhood didn't go far enough, one entrepreneurial mum is keen to take us to new lows.

'Smartmumjewellery' advocates that we now encourage teething tots to suck, slobber and slime with a smart new range of teething jewellery.

"Designed for babies and worn by mum" these items are "safe for babies to pull and chew...latex free and dishwasher safe". Pretty and practical jewellery? Is this irony?

Since when has jewellery needed to have another purpose? The entire point of jewellery is to adorn, to decorate - and quite frankly saliva, drool etc. wet or dry, is not and never will be a welcome adornment on any adult.

And what ever happened to the myriad teething toys available for consumers (sorry, mums)?

Have we gone past the stage of being able to redirect our child's sticky little digits away from our last vestiges of grown-up life and towards more appropriate items? Or is this act deemed too damaging to the purest "attachment parenting" evangelist?

Please, please, please, just say "no".

Forget the teething jewellery; save your pennies for a coffee and magazine session when you get a moment, and put this would-be entrepreneur's vision down to a continued and disturbing lack of sleep!

Trainwreck

I'm more than sympathetic to dance. I'm biased. I love it - have done all my life. So when a show graces local stages, I'm there - well, try to be.

Last week, proudly expectant, I shuffled in the half light to my seat at Rafael Bonachela's 360degrees - presented by the Sydney Dance Company and billed as "an explosive amalgam of dance, music and video that explores the experiences of contemporary urban life".

Bonachela is the company's Artistic Director and recognised as one of the most influential modern dance choreographers.

I knew that the dynamic set was designed to constantly skew my view, and I was all over the promise of a "visceral and engaging night of dance theatre". So I was more than a little miffed at being turned out 60 minutes later bewildered, amused even (shared confusion, "is that it?"), but completely unmoved.

Furthermore, I could tell my companion, a comparative dance novice but open to having a great experience, was now more focussed on the opportunity to grab a drink or two before the late leave pass expired.

It's a brave person who puts his/her hand up and admits that the darling of modern dance didn't do it for them, and, according to the art snobs, it's a dumb one who admits to wanting a bit of good old-fashioned emotional engagement - being way too puerile and sentimental for intellectual connoisseurs of the arts.

But there you have it - I'm waving both hands.

The opening videography sequence did less to contextualise the piece and more to distract. It seemed self-conscious and contrived and quite frankly, I thought if the decibel level didn't finish off my hearing, then the constantly flickering black and white imagery would result in early onset alzheimers.

Of course I accept it's all about jolting me out of my suburban fog (or some such) but I just didn't like it.

When the dancers finally emerged I was grateful for the temporary reprieve from all things discordant. Call me old-fashioned but I think a good overture is arresting and builds excitement in a spine-tingling give-me-more kind of way. It's a crescendo. I shouldn't be checking my watch and devising endurance strategies.

The company was fabulous - a nod to the male dancers here who seemed, collectively, to outshine the women, except for one stand out. Although I took exception to one poor chap who had the temerity to turn up without his neck. He looked like a rugby league player - a centre - some snappy little terrier type, squat, square and the antithesis of good clean lines. Nureyev would have a fit!

I've since investigated him and concede that he has an impressive CV. Good for him. He's doing it and I'm not. But he was a distraction!

I'm trying to recall what was good/great about it but it's all a bit fuzzy one week on. I keep thinking of my companion's comments, (to which I never did reply).

1. Why do they deliberately move in such a spastic, jerky fashion when they have such incredible control over their bodies?
2.Does anyone ever laugh?
3.I didn't like the one where the guy looked like he was a junkie doing cold turkey. I liked the water one.

So did I - like the water one that is. And yes, there were other stand-out moments too. But they came as more a reprieve from the frenetic onslaught so that I feel I didn't fully appreciate them (perhaps that is the parallel with modern, urban life).

Of course the local reviewer for the daily rag is effusive about it. He totally bought the whole promotional spiel, appearing to regurgitate it in his review to such an extent I wonder if he actually went. And certainly, many more agreed with him if the standing ovation and catcalls from the centre stalls were anything to go by.

But I wonder; is this a case of cultural cringe mashed up with me-tooism? Is it from overseas? Check. Is someone who seems to know what they're talking about (even though we can't understand a word of it and deep down we think it all sounds rather pretentious), is he/she raving about it? Check. Well it must be fabulous then.

Clap darling, clap.

Hiatus

My husband says I'm too attached to outcomes. He says I should just do stuff for the fun of it.

Right...

So here I am, after a long hiatus. Doing it for the sake of it - no strings, no objectives, no expectations. (Hold on: I'll just check my pulse.) Yep, so far so good. I'm not thinking about outcomes/performance, feedback loops - nada - just having fun.

Ahh, forget it. I'm a middle class white girl who did ballet and went to a single sex school. Of course I want an "A".

So if my pathology is 'ever shifting goalposts - the wanton, crazed search for perfection against normalised standards'; then surely my childrens' will be 'overinflated sense of entitlement'.

Just watched The Politcally Incorrect Parenting Show. Of course it seems almost absurd to link self-esteem with achievement these days. Everything is so child-centric that our children are catching waves of omnipotent narsicism. The world is my oyster because I showed up. Nice idea... maybe.

The writer/presenter talked about childrens' birthday parties as an example. Twenty years ago, a child's birthday was his/her special day. It was all about the birthday girl/boy. Now, parents are anxious that everybody has a good time, that everyone wins a prize, and that each child leaves with a loot bag befitting of Olympia fashion week.

What have we done?

Interestingly, Nigel Latta, the writer/presenter is a clinical psychologist who has specialised in criminal or forensic psychology. He's seen a few of life's more challenging individuals with myriad disorders, disfunctions and pathologies. He's seen more than most of us could bear.

Yet he's not consumed with anxiety for the next generation in that unless we gild them they will wither. He seems to think children are pretty resilient, and that it takes a lot more to damage a child's psyche than people who call their kids Rueben and Fenella think.

I hope it catches on, even here, where politcal correctness is institutionalised thanks to three terms of a centre-left government. It would be nice to think that we have enough faith left in people to well, just get on and do what people do. All this maniacal orchestration is exhausting and not a little discouraging.

There have been times when I thought of joining the 30,000 odd (averaged) kiwis migrating to Australia annually for the past decade. Apparently, you can still call a spade a spade in some circles, although they are desperately trying to catch up, it seems.

So let's hope Nigel starts a movement with his show. I, for one, am thinking of putting in a note with my next daughter's birthday invitations, announcing that we are, after due consideration, doing away with loot bags, and that only genuine winners of the birthday games will win a prize (even if it's the same kid or kids hogging the limelight). That said prizes will probably be something sugary not plastic (it's a party after all), and that they can take some cake home and a balloon, if there's some left over.

Of course, immediately, the fear is what if no-one comes? Or worse, our children start being dropped off invite lists, labelled 'bad hosts'? (Perhaps that's not all bad given the recession. Might just save hundreds of $$ on birthday gifts for insignificant others.) And then there's the ethical dilemma: if we don't give loot bags, is it acceptable for our children to receive them at other parties? Fraught...

I guess the real test will come next weekend, with three parties scheduled - two back to back five-year-old shindigs, followed by pre-schoolers' pandemonium the next day.

They'll love it, of course, and yes, come back with yet more junk that I will surreptitiously dispense of. (Don't even start me on eco-footprints!) And they'll think that's just the way things go - easy come, easy go.

And my husband will continue to wonder what has become of our little girl when Miss 5 says: "Daddy, you've upset me. I want you to buy me that dress to make me feel better."

Yes, leaving out the loot bags means the mutiny might just start a lot closer to home.

As Nigel Latta says, "Good night and good luck. You'll probably need it."