The Discomfort Zone

Michiko Kakutani’s review of Jonathan Franzen’s The Discomfort Zone in the NY Times made me squirm the whole way through but it was still, for the most part, true. The Discomfort Zone may have actually been written by Eeyore.

But what is this:
In fact, by the end of this solipsistic book, the reader has begun to feel every bit as suffocated and claustrophobic as Mr. Franzen and his estranged wife apparently did in their doomed marriage.

What?
Sounds like something an aging, urbane hottie from a Frazen novel would say about the damaged-goods male protagonist after he reveals himself (in an adrenaline fueled monologue) to be a complete dick with a serious fucking Peter Pan complex, obliterating her hopes for a serious relationship and filling her with so much disappointment she either vomits or decides to explore her bisexuality.

Is there a word for something this inappropriate?
Get a handle on it, Kakutani. Just because Franzen offers his scruffy neck it doesn't mean you should go for the throat.

GOOGLING KAKUTANI:
A CRITIC WITH A FIXATION by Ben Yagoda (Slate)
I AM MICHIKO KAKUTANI by Colin McEnroe (McSweeney’s)
I WROTE ABOUT MICHIKO KAKUTANI AND LIVED TO TELL THE TALE by Susan Lehman (Salon)