To sue or not to sue - now THAT is the question

The Stella Awards, synonymous with outrageous lawsuits, are guaranteed to make you raise your eyebrows, smirk at the plainly ludicrous and frivolous lawsuits slapped by many, and shake your head in disbelief when you learn that those opportunistic weirdos got greenbacks, loads of ‘them, for those same absurd claims.

In 1992, a septuagenarian lady - Stella Liebeck (and you thought that women that age are relatively harmless), sued McDonald’s when the hot coffee she had bought from a drive-in, fell on her lap, scalding her.

Her claim—McDonald’s sold “dangerous” coffee that could lead to burns (as in her case).

Her next step...? She sued!

The damages that she won - to the tune of $6,40,000 (but many claim that it was much more than that) had everyone sitting up, blinking their eyes rapidly and making a mental note to strike her off their party lists. F-O-R-E-V-E-R! Is that me whistling...you bet!

Since the Mcdonald’s Coffee claim, there have been many cases that defy sanity and gumption. To make it worse, many of these have actually gone on to collect mini-fortunes, cash-in on their fiteen seconds of fame on the idiot box, and go laughing all the way to the bank. Whoa!

The Stella Awards does a neat job of handpicking the most bizarre cases, every year. Sample some of these:

— A woman sued a home store when a bird flying outside the store attacked her (her line of reasoning – the home store shouldn’t be allowing birds to fly around it.). What did she expect – the home store to hire men with air guns…?

— A chap sued two magicians – they were being ‘difficult,’ he said. The motive – they didn’t share with him their trade secrets of how they performed their magic tricks. I say the two poor magicians should have taught him, albeit a little differently – would have been fun to see him pull out a hungry, roaring lion out of his black hat, instead of the customary long-eared rabbit, at a Sunday practice for children. Let’s just say the parents wouldn’t have been very amused, and gone ahead to slap some charges of their own...

— A woman involved in a car wreck sued the automobile maker for not issuing instructions that every passenger was required to wear a seatbelt.

— A guy hit by lightning outside an amusement park, sued the amusement park for failing to issue a notice to people advising them to stay in during thunderstorms.

— An enterprising guy changed his name to “Jack Ass,” and claimed that the MTV and American namesakes films and shows were plagiarized from him, and severely hurt his image. So he proved that his self-christening was just about right and made a Jack Ass of himself and went right ahead in suing MTV.

- A smoke-puffing woman, with a family history of coronary artery disease and high blood pressure, weighing over 150 pounds, with a penchant for high-cholesterol, swimming-in-fat fried food, sued her doctors for $1 million for not forcing her to change her habits! Along the same lines, a guy dued KFC, McDonald’s, Burger King and Wendy’s for becoming obese and diabetic, and not advising him that he shouldn’t be frequenting them multiple times every week. WTH!

There certainly isn’t a dearth of dotty people in the world, I guess.

Accidental Husbands?

Bred on a healthy diet of Mills & Boons, TV soaps, glossy magazines, what you will – women, despite being privy to the completely transformative nature of marriage, were only too happy to trade-in their shopping bags for ones stuffed with groceries. And their designer togs for kiddie-stuff.

The same did not hold true for men though.

They would raise eyebrows at the very mention of matrimony (which they said sorta rhymed with monotony), and cited a zillion reasons about how they would rather cut off their third left finger than sport that tell-tale band, or a sparkling diamond around it (designed as a conspiracy no doubt by them darned Tiffany's, Cartiers, and Harry Winstons – to invite sniggering looks and barely-concealed gleeful chuckles and nudges).

You had to give it to them – their reasons ranged from:

a) The logical – I wanna earn my own pair of wheels, a fat bank balance, and own apartment before I decide to get hitched)
b) The crude - to-get-a-pail-of-milk-why-should-you-buy-the-whole-cow theory
c) The (un)realistic – I'm (sigh) still looking for that (elusive) Miss Right. Till then lemme make do with all the Miss Right-Nows
d) The Nostradamus-sorts – Marriages lead to divorce. And expensive alimony. And yet more expensive child support. So avoid Step 1 – marriage. At all costs
e) The carefree – I'm a social butterfly. Plus I have no social / familial pressure to get married (knock on the wooden-wine-cork). You want me to give up all this, and don those rings, that (shudder) look to me like miniature handcuffs (and not the naughty ones. The kinds they use at Scotland Yard). You kidding, righto? No? (sheeesh)
f) The rigid and / or fearful – I can't change. I can't compromise. Marriage will force me to change. And compromise. That is not acceptable to me. So tht means, marriage is not acceptable to me. Well, at least, not right now. But yes, if Angelina Jolie / Catherine Zeta Jones were to ever split from Pitt / Douglas, they should keep our numbers on speed dial. We'll pick at the first 'ring' (pun intended)
g) The career-driven ambitious sorts - I'm very involved in my career right now. Cracking deals. Forging associations and contacts. Making bullet-proof strategies. Blah Blah Blah. It wouldn't be fair of me to marry. I wouldn't be able to give undivided attention to my wife. She would be resentful of the other woman in my life - my Blackberry. So let me step-up the corporate ladder first. And then maybe I can take steps towards marriage.

Lies. All the above.

The only reason that men shied away from marriage is that they want to enjoy single life. Each moment of it. As long as they can. Till some ambitious woman drags him, maybe by issuing an ultimatum, to that most-dreaded place – the aisle.

Where the next day, after the effects of the reception alcohol has worn off, he sits in the loo, a dazed look on his face giving way to a much-horrified one, staring sullenly at the tell-tale band on his third finger.

And the previous day's ceremonies come flashing by his mind, in blurred, and then, vivid sparks.

And the enormity of his step dawns upon the just-coming-to-his-senses guy.

Not any more.

A role reversal is very evidently in place, with today’s men hankering after commitment. Marriage. Grocery shopping. Mother-in-laws. Kids. Pesky relatives. The works.

They are ready to give all the above a shot.

While their female counterparts, hitherto the vulnerable lot, have taken it upon themselves to postpone their wedding diaries, pooh-poohing those who drop meaningful, sarcasm-dripping comments along the lines of the biological clock ticking away, yada yada.

Face it - today’s women are a fussier lot. I am one. I should know.

However, what happened to the erstwhile lot of men who believed truly in doing the I-stick-my-tongue-at-those-who-point-out-I-should-marry routine?

What I don’t know however is why today’s men so unashamedly admit, unlike some years back, that they NOW want to trade-in their beers, TV remotes, sports channels and tirade-laced car chases with the donkey up front for something so mundane like holding Merlot (if they are lucky, that is, or perhaps just wallow in self pity, what with the drab glass of orange juice staring them in the face), holding diapers and rattles, looking agitatedly at mind-numbing TV soaps (ok ok, I’m painting it too bad), and driving without uttering any colorful phrase.

Miracle? I think not.

Curious – I certainly am.

Frozen in one's tracks...

The dictionary describes a flash mob as “a group of people who organize on the Internet and then quickly assemble in a public place, do something bizarre, and disperse; also called inexplicable mob.”

With the US and Canada, having a more than fair share of their fun (read - a surprise pillow fight flash mob right in the middle of a bustling-with-activity street, an orchestrated string of applause by 200-odd people in a reputed hotel, and an “invasion” into a plush shoe boutique), other countries are following in hot pursuit too.

(I can only just imagine the surprised looks on the faces of the pedestrians, hotel-staff, and shoe-store employees who were subjected to those utterly-baffling two-five minutes. I bet that when those who pulled off the above acts made a disappearance, these same people would have blinked, and pinched each other in return, wondering if the incidents really happened, or they were just their taxed minds at their hallucinating best, on an overdrive spree.

Now in the midst of a flash mob, there are bound to be three totally-identifiable groups:
a) A bewildered lot
b) Those who participate in it
c) Those who are loath to feel left out, but are unsure what to do, hobble their feet, look awkwardly around themselves, and when they are unable to make sense of it, shuffle off, muttering about a strange, strange world.

In Beijing, around 100 people, and in Brussels, quite a few too, pulled off a flash mob stunt, where they stood as if frozen in time. Those in Beijing “froze” for three minutes. Their counterparts in Belgium, on the other hand, stood still for five minutes, spaced out with a quick break, redid it for five minutes, and then ambled off, to their respective destinations.

They couldn’t have chosen a more apt day – April 01, 2008.
Word of mouth and a prominent website had notified the participants, some of whom stood locked in embrace, some “spirited” sorts clutching their poison, while some pretended to be inter-locked in a mock-fight.

While many pedestrians looked on, flabbergasted, quite a few chose to step in, agreeing with the others that it was a great stress-buster.
Now if only there could be flash mobs in India…

In a country where people are bound to surround me, agog looks plastered on their faces, trying to see what I, on one of my mad moods, would be trying my best to spot in the bright sky, flash mobs are sure going to be quite a crowd-puller.
The same horde that would excitedly peer into the sky, where I would be pointing a well-jabbed index finger an imaginary saucer-shaped-fluffy-blob, after having used the proverbial best-seller UFO argument, would increase sizably if one of “em flash mobs were to occur.

Though I’m not too sure if they would just stand and stare, agape, or join in the fun…

Do you "knuckle" under too?

The cracking, popping sound is unmistakable.

I crane my neck to see who it is.

It is the middle-aged, pot-bellied colleague this time. And he insists on doing an encore (Groannnnn)!

As I turn my head away, I can’t help but remember how people, at some time or the other, have indulged in some (harmless) knuckle-cracking. Leaving some, like me, frothing at the mouth!

The first recollection I had of it was of my brother cracking his knuckles as close to my ears as possible, to get his back on me for having scratched my nails on some muslin / silk – something which made him feel as squeamish as the average person feels when he hears the sound of screeching chalk on a blackboard. The anguished look on my face was totally complemented by the gleeful one writ largely on his. Of course a loud fight, complete with bloodcurdling screams, was in order, much to my Mom’s despair.

You can obviously discern that I never was a fan of knuckle-cracking.

Then you had those at school who insisted on cracking their knuckles at each class test, half yearlies, and annual examinations. My reaction all those times remained the same – a glowering look at the “offender,” complete with furrowed forehead, and knitted eyebrows, or sometimes, just for a change, an arched eyebrow, reminiscent of a well-known Bollywood vamp.

Most times I’m sunny, and yet there are those odd occasions when the only thing that comes to my mind when I hear habitual knuckle-crackers, is to hook my right index finger, walk straight up to them, and rap them smartly on their heads. Of course, social propriety ensures that I desist from carrying out my designs...

In college, when we sat around with each other over cups of steaming tea / coffee, the common room resembled a theater full of eager youngsters, gathered to catch tickets to a screening of their favorite movie idol. The only difference was that here everyone had assembled to catch last minute scribbles / notes that would take them from that shamefully low-score to a barely-sidestepping-borderline-one. With all that palpable tension rife in the air, it was but natural that the distasteful sound would “pop” (pun intended), causing many people’s heartbeats to race just that little bit faster, and fetch quite a few funny looks for the knuckle-cracker.

For some, it was that time again to dole out that much-perfected scowl. All the more at people, who after having tormented you with their incessant knuckle-cracking, proceeded to crack their wrists, and necks – leaving you with no option than to leave the room, but not before giving them a pretty unhealthy dose of murderous looks.

With my history of practical jokes, wisecracks, general goofiness, and loony tales to back me up, you couldn’t blame me for people not believing a word when I would, solemn wise face and all, spout how cracking knuckles could lead to arthritis. The disbelieving faces are still etched in my otherwise awful memory.

As are the loud cracking sounds that reminded me of the box of untouched Rice crispies at home…

Wonder what knuckle-crackers will do next…probably come up with a dedicated website, complete with forum and chat.

Oh wait, they already have that…

Dunno what’s next then.

Maybe I really should get “cracking” and consult a chiropractor…

And your quirk is....?

“My daughter is about to give another of her Presidential speeches,” would be my Dad’s constant refrain, to no one in particular, each time I would clear my throat (a habit, which began during my school years, has continued with me over the years, and which seems in no hurry to depart).

Many many years later I realized that what I had shrugged off for so many years as just another of my quirks, had a name – Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (more commonly known as OCD). And I don’t have just one – I have quite a few – for instance, on a couple of occasions, when I spritzed a popular blue-bottled EDP with notes of aqua and citrus, I chanced to fight with TOOMA (The Object of my Affection), and decided that the offending fume was a jinx, and promptly banished it to the back of my closet. It doesn’t quite end there – I sometimes count the steps when I climb stairs, a quirk which I am glad to know, I share with Jennifer Love Hewitt.

TOOMA sees his arm size pat every morning, something he admitted to me today. He also strokes his stubble when he is immersed in thought (a fact which he revealed over the phone, and which I have yet to confirm myself). Mom, best friend, and quite a few others share an OCD for cleanliness. Everything has to be in symmetry, so much so that if I chance to move a table at my place, Mom will instantly jump to re-arrange / re-align the “visually-offending” table, besides shooting a murderous glare at me. Ditto for best friend, who will wring her hands if I chance to “drop” a tissue on the floor, try her best to assume an unaffected / nonchalant look about her, and the minute I turn, spring to a) fling the tissue into the garbage can and b) give me a homily on my affinity for resembling a certain porcine creature (the latter designed to send me into peals of laughter, much to her ire)...

Even on the sets of “The Apprentice,” Donald Trump would arrive with a family-sized bottle of sanitizer, and desist from shaking hands with anyone. Such is his mysophobia( fear of contamination) that he washes his hands every half an hour or so, a la our very own Lady Macbeth. What guilt or long suppressed conscience is plaguing him is quite another story…

The closely-resembling a Greek God, David Beckham, has an OCD for symmetry. Something which has wreaked havoc upon his personal life, and caused his usually tight-lipped anorexic wife to speak out. He insists on lining-up his shirts hue-wise. Fair enough. Except that it doesn’t end there. His sprawling mansion houses three refrigerators – one for food, one for snacks, and one for drinks, all coordinated down either side. Wait, there’s more. If his fridge stocks three cans of some drink, he’d rather throw one than keep three – such is his penchant for even numbers (and abhorrence for their odd counterparts). A certain Ms. Gurinder Chadha should really have re-considered naming that delightful movie, “Align it like Beckham.” Tee hee

A close friend, I have observed, has this long-running pattern where she will twirl her hair constantly while conversing. While I find it amusing and indulgently overlook it, some may be annoyed. A friend back in college had to re-apply the war paint on her face every hour. Why she was addicted to the touching-up, when anyway most of it was intact, and more importantly smudge-proof, completely beat me.

A common scene is men adjusting their belts or pulling up their trousers / jeans every now and then. While this may be appropriate for those who swear by their anti-fit Levis, it does seem a tad ludicrous when middle-aged, office executives become the newest addicts. Then you have those who believe that trousers are the best shoe-brushes known to mankind. So there you are holding a serious conversation when all of a sudden, their right leg goes behind their left trouser leg, and lo and Behold! A vigorous shoe-shine has just been done, all within ten seconds. Shoe-shine boys be damned.

Another breed are the adjusters. They adjust anything and everything – their car rear-view mirrors, ties, spectacles, watch, caps you name it. There are those who straighten their ties countless times in a day, giving a whole new meaning to the term “tie-breaker” altogether!

Best guy friend recounted how one of his friends, a budding mathematician no doubt, had an unusual pastime while driving. He would read the numbers of licence plates on cars, and do the works with them – add, multiply, subtract, and divide them with each other. Once the car in front would slow down, or he would overtake it, his interest would wane – till he espied another licence plate. Then his interest would be reinstated.

I have come across more than a fair share of people who repeat words, many of which are often superfluous. Common examples are – like, basically, generally, usually, obviously, suffixing “no” after every sentence, sorry, etc, all of which certainly sound grating on one’s ears.

There are many who count poles or temples while traveling. While some of these eccentricities may be innocuous enough, there are some that border on the bizarre.

Billy Bob Thornton, known more for his failed marriage to Angelina Jolie, and the idiosyncratic marriage vows and rituals he shared with her, is also known for taking his mail out of the mailbox and putting it back repeatedly. Cameron Diaz, “destined” for a life of OCD, is committed to washing her hands incessantly, and for making it a point to open all doors with her elbows, thanks to her inordinate fear of germs. Leonardo Di Caprio takes superstition to a new level altogether, and is known to retrace his steps to avoid cracks on pavements.

There you are. I guess if you’d only analyze a bit, you’d find some of your own petty foibles. Now if you shake your head, and gloat that you have none, I’d just say that your analysis could do with some more depth.

While you go ponder over your own quirks, let me go and check one last time if the door is thoroughly locked, count my steps to the kitchen (they should be twelve and no more), pick my good luck green bottle, lay it on my right, and call it a day! Whew!

Quite Some Monkey Business This

There’s quite a lot you can hide from view under a hat.

Must be what some airport officials must be repeating to each other, and rolling their eyes in disbelief in the bargain.

Seems like an enterprising passenger, flying from Peru to the US, managed to conveniently smuggle a monkey under his hat.

I don’t blame you – I also shook my head in a) incredulity, and b) mirth when I first heard the news.

So coming back to the passenger in question, he smoothly walked past customs in Peru, reached Florida, and boarded another plane to New York. Quite a cool, unruffled, cucumber, I must say.

I'm certain he didn’t tip his hat off in respect to anyone. Or give a wobbly curtsy.

The monkey business wouldn’t have been found out, had it not been for the simian making up its mind to take a peep from under its hideaway, in teh middle of the flight, much to the other passengers’ astonishment, replaced soon by alarm.

I would have been startled too if I would have suddenly set my eyes upon my co-passenger, and seen another pair of glittering eyes peeping out from under his hat, when he had a perfectly normal pair perched on his face...

Understandably, all hell broke loose on the flight, and harried crew-members tried their utmost to hold down the hysterical passengers.

The errant passenger held the monkey in his hands throughout the rest of the flight.
It was only when the flight reached its destination – New York’s Guardia Airport, and the Police Department escorted the passenger and the monkey off the craft, that the others heaved a collective sigh of relief.

I’m sure the situ must have been grim for the answerable officials in Peru and Florida who, despite the snazziest of gadgets and stringent security methods, had failed to detect the grinning ape. One humble pie lesson that sure it would have been.

Me – I would have loved being on that flight.

It sure would have been more funny than a barrel of monkeys (pun intended);-)