No, no. No lap-dances with angels, no pushing cash into the elastic bands of their wings and copping a feel of heaven. Is it my fear, yours? To be skeevy and homeless in the afterworld? Me, haunting and flapping down the sidewalks of paradise, the smell of urine parting a sea of cherubim. And you, in Job's rags, riffling through the trash, collecting Diet Coke cans of redemption.