Updike in waiting: Which New Yorker writer will take over the title?

Who will be the next John Updike? Who will write the Updikean stories for The New Yorker now that Updike's gone? At one time one would've thought maybe Nicholson Baker, or I should say maybe Nicholson Baker thought Nicholson Baker - until he went off the deep end into some really tendentious nonfiction and his early fiction, which started with such great elan, he really seemed to perceive the modern world with an acute and askew vision that did emulate the master's, now looks as if it was all style and no great moral and human vision to fill in the lineaments. The latest foray, in the current issue, is a story by David Means, author of a few books that I've heard of but haven't read. His story, The Knocking, told entirely from the POV of a man in an (expensive?) Manhattan apartment (redundancy?) driven bats by the knocking noises from upstairs tenant - and gradually, in short space, we suspect the turmoil is internal, not external, as he yearns for his wife, his broken marriage and family, his days in Westcester knocking about himself and keeping his house in good repair. So here's the Updike style, the most precise memorializations of things few would have thought merited description, for example, of the sound of a hammer pinging against the head of a nail, as heard through floorboards. But whereas Updike did so lovingly, embracing all that makes up our complex, sensual world, Means is annoyed by everything - or his character is, at least - a self-centered grouch. And his yearning for the past is a freefloating anxiety, unmoored in any earned (or explained) emotion. He wallows in self-pity. Updike stories at their best are full of love, of shrewd self-assessment and remorese, and of appreciation for the complexity of human relations, in which we often hurt one another as we stumble along trying to do what's best. Next?