According to a new study by some wonderful, wonderful experts at the University of Miami, people who drink are more likely to exercise than those who abstain. Why, that’s us to a T! USA TODAY quoted the lead author of the study: ”Alcohol users not only exercised more than abstainers, but the differential actually increased with more drinking. There is a strong association between all levels of drinking and both moderate and vigorous physical activity.” More specifically, a Reuters account notes: “Compared with abstainers, those considered heavy drinkers—at least 46 drinks in the past month for women, and 76 or more for men—exercised for an average of 20 minutes more per week.” In general, the study found that drinkers at all levels are more physically active than nondrinkers—whether this is because they are conscious of the need to counter the negative affects of booze, or they’re simple people with lots of brio, is not known. The study cautions that this does not mean, for instance, that a life of marathon running and marathon drinking is to be recommended. And certainly they shouldn’t be done simultaneously. 9/5/09.
So, Mad Men watchers: What potentially exciting moment of glamour and privilege was consciously deflated to a vignette of bitter soul-death on last week’s episode? This: Don and Betty Draper are having dinner with his new British boss, Lane Pryce, and Mr. Pryce’s waspish British wife. Mrs. Pryce never stops smiling tightly even though her every word is acidic enough to dissolve pearls. The foursome are dining at what we assume is a class-A Manhattan restaurant of the era. The wine arrives: Chateau Lafite Rothschild, 1949. Mrs. P. says she’s surprised that the wine is available in (presumably provincial) America. Mrs. D. asks Mrs. P. is she enjoying Manhattan? Mrs. P. answers with sarcastic brightness that she is delighted to have lost London in exchange for New York’s insect population. Mr. P. offers a toast wishing that, like Bordeaux, all those present will improve with time. Glasses are raised, jaws are clenched, teeth are gritted. These people should all be dining on water and hard crusts of bread. 8/25/09.
Why couldn’t it all have been discussed over a bottle of wine? Last week’s “beer summit” of President Obama, Henry Louis Gates, officer James Crowley and Joe Biden made for a rather silly photo op of the four of them at a white garden table with mugs of beer. What protocols and spin plans contributed to a scene that looked as if it were a bureaucrats’ clandestine picnic in Rock Creek Park? American breweries were quick to complain that the beers were all products controlled by foreign corporations, but what I don’t understand is this: why beer in the first place? Couldn’t the summit have been accomplished with a nice Oregon Pinot Noir? Or at least an option of wine by the glass—allaying the fears of ObamaCare critics about rationed menus of choice. And perhaps something grown biodynamically as a nod to environmental concerns. Was the notion here that the policeman was not much more sophisticated than Joe the Plumber, and could be most comfortably showcased with a working-man’s drink? It was a rather corny coda to a nasty cultural-political episode. Wine, which works on the levers of the mind with a fine, satiny magic, might have been more conducive to serious probative talk. 8/02/09.
There are a million reasons to see Up, the brilliant new Pixar cartoon, but here’s one for wine lovers: You get to see two dogs uncork a bottle of Champagne. The animators at Pixar have figured out how to choreograph this absurd little gag so that it’s visually realistic without ever losing its preposterousness. I’m not going to go into any detail—that would spoil things—but I would note that 1) the dogs carry out the task, commanded by their master, with an obedient eagerness that seems truly canine and 2) they pour out the Champagne with a clumsy enthusiasm that also seems truly canine. The joke is over in a few seconds: Just pay attention to the lower left quadrant of the screen when the old man and the boy have boarded the blimp. 06.02.09.
No. 3. Out of town, in Hartford, on business. A spring night, neither cold nor warm. I go to a restaurant for my lovely evening meal. I study the wine list and the menu, order a half-bottle 2005 Robert Sinksey Pinot Blanc and grilled chicken over pureed white beets. A satisfactory pairing, I think. Tasty, even. The waitress takes the order and hops off, like a young rabbit that has known no sorrow. She returns a few minutes later, still with the energy of a young rabbit but slightly abashed, and informs me that the restaurant does not in fact have any left of that half-bottle. Well, I order a riesling instead but, tell me—couldn’t someone have draw a line through that now-depleted half-bottle on the wine list? I wouldn’t necessarily expect my server to know the inventory well enough to be aware of what had gone lacking—it would only burden her with information that might confuse her or dampen her innocent spirits. No, just a simple line, executed by the wine director (or by someone at his or her command) to save me those few seconds. All right, you say, life is made up of moments lost, like this. But if you know what you want, if you are at the mercy of someone else’s hospitality and you will be billed for it, if you have chosen the wine to fit the mood and the meal, if by this point in your life you have fewer hops to spare with mindless abandon—then let there be a line drawn. Yes?
