The same day that he canceled all his newspaper and magazine subscriptions, Mr. Christopher deveined a pound of jumbo shrimp by hand. He had never done this before, and used nearly a whole roll of paper towels wiping the snotty black entrails off his fingers one by one. He also grated a package of cheddar cheese with a previously unused grater that he uncovered in his silverware drawer, kneaded a loaf of oatmeal raisin bread, then called the escort service and arranged for a girl. “I want Carlotta; she’s a Latina, right?”

He had called The Tribune earlier that morning. “Stop my subscription. The relationship is over; deliver it no longer. The advice columns just rehash the same situations—alcoholism, smoking, infidelity—although sometimes those columns are titillating, which I appreciate. The comic strips are contrived, and the punch lines aren’t ever that good. That cranky columnist on page three ought to have his head examined; I think he’s finally lost it, and your media critic is …