Photo by David Paul Morris

For Mary Roach, the most memorable day working in public relations for the San Francisco Zoological Society was the day they used an experimental laser scalpel to remove a plantar wart from an elephant’s foot. Roach was fascinated with the technology involved. Unfortunately, she wasn’t nearly as interested in public relations.

“I’m a terrible spokesperson,” Roach admitted. She said that when people would call inquiring about a rumor that the cheetah had been sucked dry by fleas, instead of dismissing the story outright, she found herself wondering how many fleas it would take to pull off such a feat.

While a career in public relations wasn’t a good fit for Roach, her curiosity and fascination with strange topics like elephant wart removals and cheetah-sucking flees helped her to take a different career path – as a freelance writer. She wrote columns, essays and feature articles for magazines like Outside, Wired, National Geographic, GQ and the New Yorker, covering topics such as vaginal weight-lifting, alligator-wrestling and amputee bowling leagues.

Roach’s first book, Stiff: The Curious Lives of Human Cadavers, gave insight into the way cadavers are used for research purposes. Roach tackled the morbid topic with wit and charm and the book became a hit. Stiff earned a spot on the New York Times bestseller list, perhaps in part because it was prominently featured on the acclaimed HBO series Six Feet Under.

After following up on the success of Stiff with another book on death, Spook: Science Tackles the Afterlife, Roach has now turned her attention to sex research with her latest book, Bonk: The Curious Coupling of Science and Sex.

The idea behind Bonk was simple.

“There are tons of books about sex, but nobody’s really written about sex research, partly because a lot of sex research isn’t that interesting to read about,” Roach said. “So I ferreted out the greatest hits.

“I tend to cover things going on in labs that you wouldn’t really picture or anticipate. The idea of somebody studying the physiology of sex – this personal, private, intimate thing and yet it’s also physiology and biology.”

Roach researched the material in the book for almost two and a half years, combing through published scientific studies and witnessing several research projects firsthand. A few times, Roach herself volunteered to be a research subject.

While researching material for the book, Roach discovered the work being done by Dr. Jing Deng, a University College London Medical School senior lecturer in medical physics, who was experimenting with 4-D ultrasound equipment. Dr. Deng sought to capture a real-time image of human intercourse using ultrasound technology, but was unable to find a couple willing to be the first test subjects. So Roach, along with her husband Ed, volunteered.

When asked how she was able to convince her husband to participate in the study with her, Roach said, “He’s crazy supportive. He was not thrilled to do that.”

“It was much harder for him. It was nothing for me. I was just a receptacle. I was taking notes,” she added.

Luckily for Ed, Roach has promised not to forget the sacrifice he made for her work.

“I owe him a favor forever,” she said.

Like Roach’s other books, Bonk is a mixture of historical research and research that Roach witnessed firsthand. One of the more interesting subjects in the book was Dr. Geng-Long Hsu, an expert on erectile dysfunction, who performed surgery to restore blood flow to the penis of a man suffering from erectile dysfunction while Roach observed. All of the researchers featured in Roach’s book were all very receptive to her efforts to observe their work firsthand.

“People were surprisingly supportive in light of the fact that when you do sex research, you’re constantly exposing yourself to criticisms from family values group and people who could interfere with your funding,” Roach said.

Bonk was released on April 7th. The following day she began a book tour that has her visiting 18 different locations in 30 days. This week, she has already been in Boston, New York and Miami. Today she is in Chicago, tomorrow she will be in St. Louis. The goal is to visit as many cities as possible in a given week, since the New York Times bestseller list is updated weekly.

Her typical schedule while on tour involves getting up at 5 a.m. to get to either a mid-day reading or an event at 10 or 11. Her afternoons are spent doing media interviews and at night she is at bookstores giving book talks and signing copies of Bonk. Then, it’s usually back to the hotel. Any drinking or socializing after the event cuts into her sleep time.

Typically around 100 people show up at the bookstores to see Roach in person. Everyone is supportive, but there’s usually a strange vibe in the room because of the subject matter.

“There’s nothing in the book that I can talk about without saying words like ‘clitoris’ or ‘orgasm’,” Roach admitted.

Also, the fans themselves are often reluctant to participate in the event.

“Usually what happens is I open up for questions and they sit there for a while and nobody raises a hand. And then, one or two people will ask a question and then suddenly 25 people have a question,” said Roach.

As awkward as the events can be, none were likely as awkward as her book talk last night at the Books and Books in Miami because Ed’s family was in attendance, including Roach’s mother-in-law and sister-in-law.

Photo by Joel Murphy

Roach said her husband’s family is very supportive of her work. When Stiff came out, Roach’s mother-in-law purchased the book, but put a brown paper cover over it while reading it (her mother-in-law claimed it was to protect the book, but Roach is skeptical). Ed’s parents have read all of Roach’s books.

“I don’t know whether they actually enjoy them, but they read them,” she said.

Roach’s family and friends have all been supportive of her work. None of her loved ones have said anything critical to her about her books.

“I’m sure a lot of the response goes on behind my back,” Roach said.

Roach is already starting to think about her next project, but admits that after covering death and sex, it’s hard to find a worthy subject to tackle (she encourages readers to send her suggestions). When looking for subject matter, Roach looks for research that has an interesting historical aspect, as well as things that she can see in person. She looks for interesting topics that are quirky and fun, and says that her philosophy for her books is simple.

“I hope that people learn something and have a good time reading it at the same time,” Roach said.

Written by Joel Murphy, April 2008. Bonk: The Curious Coupling of Science and Sex is available now. For more information on Mary Roach and the Bonk book tour, visit her official site.

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Joel Murphy

When I think of memoirs, I tend to imagine a former President of the United States or other noteworthy public figure sitting down at a large oak desk in his twilight years, looking back at his life and putting pen to paper in an effort to impart his wisdom to the world and help shape his legacy before he dies.

What I don’t imagine is a 15-year-old girl chomping on gum and talking about what it was like to grow up with a father who was a one-hit wonder and how it felt to win the Cosmic lottery by landing on a smash-hit Disney television show before she reached puberty. But that is exactly what is about to happen now that Miley Cyrus (a.k.a. Destiny Hope Cyrus, a.k.a. Hanna Montana – seriously, this chick has more alias’ than a career criminal) has signed a book deal with Disney-Hyperion Books.

Did I mention the fact that she’s 15 years old? Because she is. She’s 15. She’s 15-years-old and she is going to write her memoirs (well, let’s be honest, a ghost writer is going to write her memoirs – I really hope it ends up being a middle-aged guy who doesn’t even have kids). What possible insight could she have to share with the world? What the hell is a 15-year-old doing reflecting on her life? “Fifth grade was an especially tumultuous time in my life. I was surrounded by cootie-infested boys and my parents, in an effort to keep me grounded, had refused to purchase the new Trapper Keeper I had my eye on …”

I’m not saying Miley Cyrus shouldn’t be allowed to write a book (or put her name on a book that someone else writes), but I just think it sounds pretentious to hear that a 15-year-old girl is penning her memoirs. I’m sure she has plenty of stories about her glamorous life filming a hit TV show, touring the country with a best-selling album and receiving royalties from the hundreds of products bearing the Hannah Montana name. People magazine reports that the Miley Cyrus franchise will be worth a billion dollars by the end of the year. Having such an opulent lifestyle is bound to provide you with some quality anecdotes, but it just seems a little premature for her to be writing a memoir now.

Granted, the definition of a memoir has changed. Gone are the days when memoirs were mostly written by politicians and military leaders sharing stories of their public service. These days, anyone with a story to tell can sit down and write a memoir (even if you don’t have a story to tell, you can just make shit up like James Fry did). But it still seems absurd for a 15-year-old to write a memoir.

Miley Cyrus is on top of the world right now. She’s still living in the moment. She probably takes for granted how wonderful her life is. To write a memoir now seems pointless – her life is great and, for all she knows, will continue to be great. I don’t want to hear from Miley Cyrus now, I want to hear from her in 20 years.

Right now, Miley Cyrus is in the “Britney Spears ‘Oops, I Did It Again’” phase. She has a Disney Channel background and a solid preteen following, but is starting to show signs of shattering her wholesome image once she turns 18 (as evidenced by the recent provocative photos of Cyrus that found their way on to the Internet).

Soon, if the pattern holds, she will get a taste of independence and will begin partying and drinking all of the time. Three years from now, she will be the new apple of the paparazzi’s eye and TMZ and Perez Hilton will feature daily updates on her late-night antics. Cyrus will crack under the pressure, develop a drug habit and eventually will blow through her vast fortune.

After several stints in rehab, she’ll end up doing one of those degrading celebrity reality shows in an effort to reclaim a bit of the spotlight that long ago passed her by. Eventually, she will adjust to her post-fame life and will realize everything that she has lost.

That’s the Miley Cyrus that I want to hear from. That Miley Cyrus, far removed from the limelight and hardened by all that she’s been though, is going to have something interesting to say. Her memoirs will be filled with poignant moments and reflections on the high cost of fame.

Then again, maybe I’m being too tough on the young starlet. The last thing I want to do is wish a rough life filled with tragedy and sadness on a 15-year-old. If her parents saw this column, it would probably be heart-wrenching to see the direction their young girl’s life could be headed. And lord knows, the last thing I want to do is break her father’s heart because it might blow up and kill this man.

Random Thought of the Week:

I’d like to tip my hat to singer Brooke White introducing the concept of the “do-over” to American Idol. I think more musicians should start songs over abruptly in front of live crowds (preferably with that same pained “deer in the headlights” look on their face that she had).

Joel Murphy is the creator of HoboTrashcan, which is probably why he has his own column. He loves pugs, hates Jimmy Fallon and has an irrational fear of robots. You can contact him at murphyslaw@hobotrashcan.com.

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Ned Bitters

This week’s inductee into the “Overrated Hall of Fame” is … outdoor dining.

This past Saturday marked the first warm sunny weekend of the spring in the Washington, D.C. area, which meant that every single ambulatory human in the metro area was either washing his truck, spreading mulch, jogging, walking or riding the rusty hybrid bike they haven’t ridden since last April and won’t ride again until next April.

It also marked the beginning of the highly clichéd, vastly overrated “Let’s go to a restaurant and eat outside” experience. I’ve never understood the appeal of eating outside, unless it’s at a ballgame. If I’m paying good money for restaurant food, I sure as hell don’t want to eat it outside and have to contend with the countless distractions that detract for the main purpose of eating out, which is enjoying the food.

Since the first time some club-wielding Neanderthal figured out that he could better enjoy his mammoth burger in a cave instead of outside in the sun or rain, being inside has been a mark of human progress. For the most part, we sleep inside, fuck inside, and shit inside. (Unless, of course, you are from Appalachia, in which case … some day, some day.) But let a restaurant offer outdoor seating, and people jump at the chance to feel European. I think it’s just a genuine pain in the ass.

First, we have to deal with the elements. For instance, there’s the sun. I guess it’s not enough that my char-grilled double cheeseburger is feeding a nascent tumor in my colon, or that my cheddar bacon fries are clogging up the last three millimeters of passable aorta, or that the four Bass Ales are looking to annihilate the few remaining healthy cells clinging to life in my liver. Now I can work on my melanoma as the midday sun sears the back of my neck. To complete this carcinogenic trifecta, I should schedule a comprehensive set of x-rays while I eat.

But I’ll take the sun over the wind, which leaves me flailing at the placemat, the napkin, the empty sugar packet and the check. The slightest breeze can turn a simple midday nosh into a frantic game of Whack-a-Mole.

Even if the day were completely windless and sunless (as in fat fucking chance), I’ll still have to deal with flies. You know that solitary fly that you occasionally encounter inside a restaurant? His entire extended family is having their reunion at my outdoor table. The entire outdoor meal must be eaten one-handed, because the other is gesticulating like a pissed off Mussolini as I try to shoo away the onslaught of flies whose last stop was atop the pile of shit dropped by some bum behind the restaurant dumpster.

We also have the possibility of rain, which can dampen – literally – the whole eating experience. My brother likes to tell the story of eating lunch in the courtyard of New Orleans’ famed (and terribly overrated) Court of Two Sisters restaurant when it started to drizzle. In just a few seconds, the servers moved every item from every diner’s table inside. The switch took no more than 30 seconds. He was quite impressed with the choreographed actions of the staff. However, being someone whose glass if perpetually half empty (because I’m fucking eating outside and the damn waitress can’t keep my glass refilled), I see nothing but the pain-in-the-ass side of this. If this mid-meal game of musical tables happened while I was eating inside, I’d bitch to the manager, write a letter to the newspaper, call Channel 7 on Your Side, demand a free meal and basically throw one of my of hissy fit. I fail to see the charm.

I guess there is one advantage to all these weather-induced nuisances. Between grasping at wind-blown napkins, fanning myself to keep cool, sweating like John Daly as he walks a par five, shooing away flies like a Tae Bo master and running from table to table to dodge rain drops, I probably burn as many calories as I take in. Still, all that activity is something I’m only interested in if I end up eating at, ohhh … Chez Ironman Competition. If I’m eating at Andre’s Laid Back Bistro, I’d like to skip the aerobicizing.

Even if it weren’t for the nettlesome elements, what’s outside that is so interesting to look at anyway? Most people you pass on a sidewalk are, at least visually, not that conducive to enhancing the dining experience. If it’s warm enough to eat outside, then it’s warm enough to wear flip flops and sandals, which means I am forced to look at an endless parade of toes while I try to eat. Unless those toes belong to Angelina Jolie, I’d rather not see them while I work on my turkey club.

Sitting outside also means I have a steady stream of crotches passing two feet from my face. I can say for certain that I do not want most of the crotches on this planet that close to my face at any time, let alone at lunchtime. In fact, here is a snippet of my inner dialogue the last time I ate outside: “Oh look, here comes a 260-pound woman with a camel toe you could swipe a Mastercard through, and she’s dragging on a leash her four-year-old wall-eyed son, who just ate a half carat booger. And here comes a crud covered old man who hasn’t had a mailing address or hot shower since the Carter Administration. Oh please, let me be downwind from him as he limps by. And is that … could it be … yes, it is! Two bikers zooming down the street in full bike garb, treating me to the visual pleasure of the detailed outline of four no doubt sweaty balls through their skintight biker shorts. Mmm … mmm, that sure makes these raw oysters taste even better!”

With a little luck, maybe those two bikers can get plastered by one of the 600 cars that crawl by while I eat, spewing carcinogenic exhaust fumes in my face as I work on my nitrate stuffed steak and aspartame-laden Diet Coke. “Um … yes, I’m ready to order. Give me the Cancer Melange with a side of biker balls, thank you.”

Even if you removed all these factors, it’s usually uncomfortable to eat outside because of the furniture. Inside there are padded booths and soft chairs. Outside I’m forced to sit on those ass-busting wrought iron grid chairs that leave my legs looking like a pair of waffles. My shins and ankles end up looking like I just played a soccer doubleheader, what with the iron octopus legs those tables always have. The only thing more bruised by the end of the meal is the poor waitress’s back from having to back out the door 27 times because I just had to eat outside.

Eating outside is also supposed to add to the tourist experience. Every waterfront city in the country has that precious area with an abundance of outdoor restaurant seating. Somehow, watching fat tourists with fannie packs dragging whining would-rather-be-at-the-hotel-pool kids to see the “sights” is supposed to enhance the vacation experience. My idea of a pleasant vacation lunch does not include watching miserable families work up lumberjack sweats as they frantically pedal paddleboats in order to maintain that two-mile-per-hour cruising speed that allows them to slalom through a fetid bay filled with dead pigeons, floating condoms and the occasional surfaced corpse.

There is one instance when eating outside is fun, and that is if the main purpose of the outing is drinking. My brother and I, when he was still drinking (fucking quitter), spent many memorable afternoons getting shitfaced on the second deck overlooking Baltimore’s famed Inner Harbor, making fun of tourists, locals, street performers, and … everything else. But even serious drinking is really better left inside. That’s why bars are usually dark.

Sure, beer commercials and movies show bar denizens drinking and laughing it up and having all kinds of bigtime fun, but in a real bar, you’re supposed to wallow in your misery, obsessing on abject regret, mulling lost opportunities, ruing misspent youth, loathing yourself for wasting your talent, dreading a future darkened by an absence of hope and suffering with the awareness that what lies ahead is an endless succession of dreary days, on after another, each one a little worse than the next and seamless string of blackness …

But I’ll still take that over another set of biker balls in my face.

Ned Bitters is, in fact, overrated. You can contact him at teacherslounge@hobotrashcan.com.

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Courtney Enlow

What I’m about to say is controversial, and could potentially fill my inbox with an intense swarm of emails demanding I hand in my laptop and bow out of this writing thing, instead banishing myself to a cave somewhere far far away. So note that I don’t say this lightly at all, and I would never admit it were I not safely hidden in my own home, the door locked AND dead bolted.

* deep breath *

I don’t get the whole Sex and the City thing.

There. I said it. I said it and I wouldn’t take it back.

Look, I’m female. A girl, even. And I love music made by waifish whispering women with guitars circa 1994, and movies wherein the attractive but not too attractive male lead wins the heart of the attractive but not too attractive heroine, and I own a shitload of shoes and uncomfortably large earrings and nail polishes in many shades of pink that are almost indistinguishable. I wear lotions that smell like lilacs and I buy picture frames and candles recreationally.

I am woman (hear me justify) and I don’t shy away from the clichés and stereotypes often associated with our gender, because you know what? Fuck all, a lot of the time it’s true. And that’s okay. But I’ve stayed quiet on this issue for too long and it is time for me to roar in word count numbers too verbose to ignore.

For those of you unfamiliar with the show and its inner workings (I’m desperately trying to refrain from snarkily typing “ie: men” in parentheses after that, please bear with me), let me break some character traits down for you, in really simple terms:

Charlotte: WASP prude.

Miranda: Bitch.

Samantha: Big slut/borderline drag queen.

Then there’s Carrie, our hero. She’s a writer who spends an exorbitant amount of money on really ass ugly clothes. Money earned by writing about blow jobs and using a lot of bad puns. These are our four ladies, our icons. And I kind of hate it.

Not to be such a Charlotte, but I blame this show for the Great Slutting of America. Maybe it’s MySpace, maybe it’s Forever 21, maybe it’s Paris Goddamn Hilton and her gangrene vag, but something has caused young girls today to look and dress like huge giant floozies. Kids are having sex younger and younger and it’s not fucking cool.

And not to be a Miranda, but a lot of the girls who obsess over and adore this show are idiots. They’ve never read a book that wasn’t about some other idiot mentally unable to save money and live on their own, so they have to trap some man into doing it for them (I’m not being glib. That’s the exact plot of the hit Shopaholic books.) And slutty, badly dressed and stupid’s no way to go through life, chicks.

To be my own devil’s advocate, the ladies aren’t necessarily terrible influences, really. I mean they’re all four successful independent career women. Miranda’s even a lawyer which means she’s smart and stuff. And sure, they have a lot of relatively indiscriminate sex, but they’re owning their sexuality. They fuck like men, instead of desperately needing love to be made to them. That’s really never been seen before. That’s pretty cool.

Okay, self, here’s the problem with that: owning one’s sexuality has become the biggest lie perpetrated on womanity in this generation. In theory, an incredible idea, one women should strive to. In practice? An excuse for every Maury guest, Flavor of Love contestant and Girls Gone Wild star. This might be where the 13 some odd years of Catholic schooling comes pouring out of me, but sex is scary. I don’t want to rock your world here or anything, but it makes babies and gives you death diseases sometimes. You know what doesn’t? A damn vibrator.

Okay, so those are the extremes at war in my soul. Catholic guilt + a want for feminist solidarity. And yet neither of these things are really the case in the end. I don’t hate the show for being too whorey, and I don’t hate it for being a generic and romanticized dumbed down version of female independence. In fact I don’t hate it at all. That’s the rub. Sometimes it’s funny. Sometimes it’s pretty heartwarming. And sometimes its quotes are uber Facebookable. I just don’t get it. I don’t get why people love it so much. I don’t get why it’s the pinnacle of girl society. I don’t get why everyone’s flipping out over the movie coming out next month. And I really don’t get why the fuck anyone likes the way they dress, I mean really now.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to climb carefully off my soapbox. I don’t want to rip my sequined hot pants or break my six inch diamond stilettos.

Courtney Enlow is a writer living in Chicago and working as a corporate shill to pay the bills. You can contact her at courtney@hobotrashcan.com.

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(Click to enlarge.)

Jeremiah was raised in the deepest part of the darkest jungle. That’s why he smells like adventure. He currently lives in Elkins, WV with his wife, Becky, and son, Isaiah, who is epic and destined to rule the world one day. You can contact him at jeremiahwentz@hobotrashcan.com.