From the Department of “Preaching to the Choir”, I read with glee an article written by Noah Baumbach in the pages of The New Yorker {January 26, 2009}. I have long known of the benefits of drinking good red wine and have tried to counsel friends, family, clients and constables of the law as to its salutary effects. You can understand, then… the sense of satisfaction when I read further confirming details published in a high falutin’ publication like The New Yorker.
As a side note… if you can keep a straight face after reading this, then you must be dead and you should have started enjoying Clarets, Burgs, ‘Neufs, Brunellos & etc. years ago.
Mouse au Vin – Noah Baumbach
“Red wine may be much more potent than was thought in extending human lifespan, researchers say in a new report that is likely to give impetus to the rapidly growing search for longevity drugs. The study is based on dosing mice with resveratrol, an ingredient of some red wines. . . . [In a related study] scientists used a dose on mice equivalent to just 35 bottles a day.”—The Times
August 24, 2008
I uncork a 2003 Haut-Médoc, which has a delightfully oaky nose, and pour a glass for myself and a bowl for my subject, Louis, the gray-and-white mouse I’ve selected for this study. I’ve chosen him for his serious and restrained demeanor—among the other rodents, he keeps to himself. Cautious by nature, he sniffs the wine apprehensively, but after a sip or two he laps it up eagerly.
The Château La Croix opens up in the glass, developing a full body and a luscious texture, and really hits its stride by the sixteenth bottle. Once we get a good head on, Louis is able to do the treadmill for twice his normal length of time and I do a pretty solid forward roll.
August 25th
Late start today. I don’t wake until after ten. (And that’s only because the phone clangs like an air-raid siren. Debra wondering where I was last night.) Louis moans in his cage until eleven-thirty. A 1998 Saint-Émilion helps ease the crippling sensation of blood poisoning. A little hair of the dog. Try to jot some observations from last night, but, really, after I started dialing ex-girlfriends it’s all a black hole.
Louis again shows an abundance of energy, however; he must’ve taken the wrong turn in the maze about eight times in a row before he realized the cheese was to the left. Once he gets it, he collapses in a pool of laughter and urine. And then I collapse in a pool of laughter and urine.
September 3rd
Louis is characteristically reserved and a bit testy before we get going, but after eight or nine glasses he’s back to his jocular self. He even makes some astute comments about the 2005 Pomerol’s peppery herbaceous finish. This is a terrible thing to say, but I like Louis better when he drinks.
After eleven bottles, Louis shows unbelievable muscular progress. He can lift my left foot and, according to the rabbit, he arm-wrestled the monkey to a draw. (I must have been dialing ex-girlfriends around this time.) I do what might generously be called a cartwheel but really is just me losing my balance. I fall and smash into a cabinet of borosilicate glasses.
The mice in the control group get the usual bowl of water and are asleep by nine-thirty. Louis and I don’t crash until four, following a spirited argument about free will and half of “Norbit” on Starz.
September 24th
I call my wife and tell her I’m going to sleep at the lab. She reminds me that she left me a week ago. Louis tries to crack me up by pantomiming humping a chimp through the cage. I hang up and Louis high-fives me: “We’re good to go, bro!”
Louis runs a half-marathon on the treadmill, then vomits into my decanter. I do a handstand.
September 27th
Last thing I remember is doing a handstand three days ago. That’s O.K. But I wouldn’t have minded if someone had moved me from the floor to a mattress. Or at least cleaned up the blood. Louis is staring at me. “You said some weird shit,” he declares.
Louis is excited: he’s heard of a study with endocannabinoids and THC as an anti-inflammatory. He suggests that if we’re going to live forever we ought to have soft skin. I explain to him that we’d need to apply for a grant, which could take months, and, with the headache I’ve got, I really don’t feel up to the paperwork. Louis suggests that we just score some weed at the record store.
October 10th
I look great! Louis looks great! Louis says I look thirty-seven. Louis is a year and a half and looks eight months. I thought Louis was me today. Mice are so weird. They’re like humans in rodent costumes.
October 28th
It should be mentioned that Louis can now lift the cat. I can lift Louis. I could do that before, but now he’s more muscular, so it’s actually impressive. Do you follow?
After we smoke a bowl, I unscrew a 2008 Ralph’s generic-brand red. It has a sugary vinegar nose and a vinegary, sugary, vomity biley taste, but after five bottles who gives a shit? Louis wonders aloud if resveratrol might also be found in tequila, Jägermeister, and cocaine. I have to dip a little further into the grant money, but we’re able to score some blow by the side of the highway. Once we get back to the lab, we discover it’s baking soda. Louis wants to hunt down the guy and murder him. It takes me, the monkey, and the entire control group of mice to restrain him. Fortunately, the hookers arrive and all is forgotten.
December 18th
A touch of vin triste today as we realize that the final mouse in the control group has passed on. Louis tore the little fellow’s head off in a paranoid rage. Thirty-five bottles of red followed by crystal meth seems to have diminishing returns. Or so says the rabbit.
January 5, 2009
Where has all the grant money gone? We need cash, damn it! I can’t give any more blood, that’s for sure. . . . I get Louis a job down the hall testing the effects of loud rock music on hearing, but he fails the piss test. And I’d told him to take the rat’s urine.
Then he’s all in my face, like, “You think you rule the world, I do everything to please you, run the treadmill” bullshit, and I’m, like, “You should shut your fucking face, you fucking mouse animal rodent . . .”
Our first fistfight.
January 24th
i love louis i wrote a song about how much i love him it goes
louis louis louis,
mon petit souris
souris means louis in france i sing him my song and he cries and i pet him and we are happy and we drink wine
March 4th
need to write more better journal writing
June 9, 2077
Louis is seventy today, which must make me three hundred and nine. The mouse and I share a laugh over a slice of Cheddar, thinking back to the old days. Oh, we had some times! This was before they found resveratrol in lettuce and way before the monkey and the rabbit staged an intervention. Louis and I were so mad at them then, but all is forgiven. . . .
Louis looks great for his age. Except for a distinguished salt and pepper along his chin and rear end, he doesn’t look older than seventeen.
It’s funny. I was just remarking to Louis that I can’t even remember what life was like before the mice took over. He laughs and chucks a cracker into my cage.