I think when you die, you DO go to heaven, and it’s almost exactly like they say it is in the cartoons. You walk up to two giant gates made of solid gold on a field of clouds, and St. Peter is there, and he checks your name off of a scroll that is so long you would have found it absurd if you were still alive, but now you are dead, and nothing is absurd anymore. When you walk inside, all of your loved ones are there, and all of the pets you’ve ever had run around your feet, tails wagging, and Mozart and Einstein and Audrey Hepburn are having an argument but they interrupt whatever point of philosophy one of them was trying to defend to invite you to dinner, which is served at an infinitely long table piled with all of your favorite foods, set up alongside a postcard-pretty river that babbles like music. The sun is warm on your cheek, and for a second you might stop to wonder “what” sun and “what” cheek, but you don’t have any time, because you’re too busy transforming into pure energy and happiness. But right before the transformation is complete and you become one with the universe, a seraph “taps” you on the “shoulder” and reminds you of the one rule governing all of heaven: NO DANCING. “No fair, dancing is so fun,” you might say. “Well,” the angel shrugs, “you should have gotten your dancing done when you had the chance, like this guy did.” Fair enough. Good point, angel.