Single, with complexes

A pathetic guy and a fraudulent girl offer books about the dating life that will make you happy to stay home.

By Gavin McNett

Aug. 28, 2001 | It's hard to imagine that two slim books, both designed for the smallest room of the house (the one with the most plumbing), could explain all there is to know about the ever-fraught and complex subject of dating. Nevertheless, these two, "A Very Lonely Planet" by Ryan Bigge and "My 1,000 Americans" by Rochelle Morton, do. Nothing more should be written on the topic, and all the umpty-hundreds of volumes that've already appeared should be tumbled from the shelves and set on fire. Bigge's book and Morton's -- a boy book and a girl book -- together constitute a virtual alpha and omega of American courtship, circa 2001. And once you've read them, you'll never go out with a member of the opposite sex again, for fear of looking into their eyes and seeing a Bigge or a Morton reflected back at you.

Bigge, 28, is an established freelance writer on the Canadian circuit (Chatelaine, Toronto Life, the National Post), and a former managing editor at the anti-consumerist magazine Adbusters. But most signally, he's a nerdy, post-collegiate indie-rocker; and of all the thousands of guys like that, both in the habitable world and Canada, he's the most exemplary you're ever likely to run across. Bigge seems nice, and rather smart, and a lot of his short freelance pieces are pretty good. His book, though, presents him as something of a cultural bonsai specimen, stunted as a writer by his ironic tics and defensive jokiness, unable to engage the world and its history save through hackneyed pop-culture references, ad-copy locutions and baseless put-ons.

"OK," "A Very Lonely Planet" begins, "I know what you're asking. Who is this guy? What does he know about being a Single Guy? If Eminem and Pikachu got in a death match with staplers and other fine, attractively priced office-supply items, who would ..."

Actually, that's a baseless put-on. Bigge did not write that. I am just aping his style. And maybe this is just my opinion. (And that plus $1.50 will buy a tasty cup of tres clichéd coffee at a fine upscale-esque caffeinated-beverage retail chain.) But well-known dead author Tennessee Williams said it best -- "Love is just another four-letter word." Or maybe it was Tennessee Tuxedo. But I'm just trying to get at one thing here. Three words:

Heather Locklear.

This is how "A Very Lonely Planet" reads. For 200-esque pages. And I said before that I would explain in three words. But "Heather Locklear" is two words. Two words is less than three words. Now Gavin is Sad. See Gavin assume a facial expression appropriate to unhappy-esque feelings. Like the expressions a Single Guy facially assumes when perusing the fine, family-values-oriented consumer goods at Crate & Barrel, sans a female-esque lifestyle attachment (otherwise known as girlfriend -- or boyfriend if you're a girl). OK, I know what you're asking. "Coke or Pepsi, dammit! Coke or Pepsi!?"

Ow! Ow! Not in the face! Help! Hello!? Come back! Anyone? Hey, you!

OK, wait: Maybe I don't know what I'm talking about, but I'm not saying you can't have a girlfriend if you're a girl. Or a boyfriend if you're a guy, or a rubber snorkel or a beloved Tickle Me Elmo™ doll if you have Special Lifestyle Needs ... Coke! Pepsi! No, Coke! Coke. Definitely Coke.

Uh,

[The following 100 pages removed and sent to Penthouse Letters.]

And how exhausting is that? The conceit of Bigge's title, the "very lonely planet," is an imaginary island (or a planet, but chiefly an island) where single guys end up when they can't get a date. Its "mascots," Bigge writes, "include Charlie Brown, Holden Caulfield, and Nintendo's Mario. Visitors travel by unicycle or monorail. Everyone eats at the Nighthawks Cafi, home of the Woody Allen Burger, which features extra malaise and a semi-secret sauce." This is the place from which Bigge hails.

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