Heaven is actually just a room. At least, that's how it seems when you first die. The room is about 18' x 20' and is furnished with a plastic- wrapped green sofa set. Light seeps through every surface. The floor is fibrous but doesn't quite feel like carpet and doesn't quite feel like grass. It's cool and invigorating, yet of ambiguous origin. After dying, you stumble into the room (although you can't discern any entrance behind you) and take a seat. You have to wait here for what seems like five hours. This is where we join Frank Sinatra, who sits on the loveseat, naked, scratching the back of his head. The wall opposite Frank deliquesces to reveal a landscape of mirrored sky. A man in puffy pants and silk jerkin steps through the melting wall without breaking stride. Behind him distant, dim figures move in slow- motion.

"Hello, Frank. My name is Virgil."

"That's a pretty fruity name."

"It was popular where and when I come from."

"Hey, Virgo, where the hell am I?"

"Virgil. And this is heaven."

"I need a scotch and steak," Frank barks.

"Oh, I'm afraid we don't have that."

"Hey, Fruit, my heaven has beef."

The man replies uncomfortably: "Follow me."

"No problem. I'll stay behind you, thanks."

The man walks towards the distant, dim figures until they cease to be dim and distant. Men and women dressed like Frank's host are formed in a circle, fiddling with keyboards and tossing each other into the air. Their eyes are drops of mercury.

"Who are these fruits," Frank asks.

"Hey. Minos," says a large man, offering his hand.

"Minos, Virgil. Doesn't anyone in heaven have an American name?"

"Those kids are American, Frank," says Minos pointing to the rest of the angels.

"They're musicians too, actually. Like you," Virgil adds.

"Listen here, Virge, I ain't no musician. That's for the beats and hippies. I got in the biz to bang a few chicks and hit Vegas," Frank spits while jabbing two fingers at Virgil's breast.

"Let's introduce you to the band," Virgil says. "They're called Antarctica."

"Not really trying on that one," Frank remarks.

"Well, Mr. Sinatra, we thought the word and continent of Antarctica evoked the same imagery as our music-- bleached white skies, snow- blasted surfaces, desolation, frozen beats," one of the band member says.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. You play snow or something? It's just music, kid. What's wrong with names like 'Jimmy Danty and the Bim Bam Boom Orchestra'?"

"All music is art," a keyboard player says.

"How'd you kids get here? Did a bomb go off in a coffeehouse?" Frank asks.

"Frank, more people are arriving. We'd like to introduce you," Minos interjects.

"It's about time I met some famous dead people," Frank says, turning towards a group of approaching ghosts. They approach with grave, deliberate gazes and manners of great authority. They speak in gentle, courtly voices.

"Hello, welcome to the afterlife," they all say in order.

"Yeah, skip the lip," Frank mumbles.

Virgil introduces the newcomers: "This is Julius Caesar, King Latinus, Plato, Socrates, Ptolemy, and Hippocrates."

"Now that's what I'm talking about. Some rulers. Alright, I admit don't recognize some of you Greeks. But Caesar and some of you others... I could party with you."

"We're here for the gig," Caesar says.

"Yes, this gig is quite important," Ptolemy adds.

"Today we are sending Antarctica out into the temporal world. They will show people a sign from beyond," Minos announces.

"Listen, can I skip this bongo jam and move on to the eternal fornication?" Frank asks. "I want to make the most of this heaven gig."

"Well, Frank, we wanted to get your opinion on the music," Caesar says.

"And..." Frank eggs on.

"You're the greatest ever, Frank," Caesar finishes.

"Damn straight, bowlcut."

Antarctica finish setting up their instruments. The angels sit indian- style on the cloudy ground. Frank looks around uncomfortably and eventually takes a knee like a winded lineman on a sideline. Keyboards begin sighing and squirting. Raw drumbeats click quietly underneath, breaking into the occasional frigid fill. Arcade blips and aluminum guitars float like chunks of chewed-up waffle in the 100% pure synthesizer syrup. Flanged digital pulsing throbs throughout like lines of trucks splashing through stagnant puddles on Detroit streets.

"Jesus Christ, this thing over yet?" Frank asks.

"That's just the first song," explains Virgil.

The band continues on in the same second gear. Hollow plastic tubes of keyboard shoot forth. Icy hooks plink along in somnambulist cycles. The singer yawns lazy lyrics about chrome and sky. Frank stands.

"Okay, I've had enough of this goth powwow. Can one of you guys do your job and show me to my room or whatever?"

"But, Frank, what do you think of this?" asks Virgil.

"Look, I tell you what. I may look like some wrinkled corpse in a crushed tux, but I know my modern music. My kids and grandkids listened to all that modern junk. I got seed all over the union, pals. I've heard it all. I hate to spoil heaven's party, but that ambient, touchy- feely, girl- gone, eyeliner- wearin' schmaltz went out of style about 15 years ago on Earth. Whose idea was it to make heaven sound like that?"

The band members look confused and hurt. They turn to Virgil to explain.

"Virgil, that fellow Ian told us this would work," the singer says behind jet bangs.

"Yeah, Ian Curtis. It was his idea," another adds.

"Fools! I told you to ignore him," Virgil cries. Frank continues to think out loud.

"In fact, I know where I've heard this all before. I got this flaky grandkid in Secaucus who likes dancing and pinning stuffed animals to himself. He listened to some group of Queen- loving nobies called Underworld. That damn kid would come up to my deathbed blasting that garbage in his headphones. And that stuff you just played sounded like a carbon copy. In fact, your entire shtick seems based off Second Toughest in the Infants. You're about 10th toughest, pals. They were an electronic band that managed to eek more organic texture than you rockers. Their music evolves, mutates, and surrounds. Your music just wafts from the smokestacks of a run-down 80's new wave factory, hanging in the air without direction, with nothing left to do but dissipate."

Antarctica cringe.

"Emotional goth kids shouldn't mess with the dance. Just like how I didn't let that Yanni fruit cover 'Under My Skin.' You may be able to convince some college kids that this whole thing is original, but don't expect a Heaven- on- Earth revolution. Music should punch through the small of your back, grab your spine, and shake hello. What you just played sounded like wine glasses clinking in a fashion boutique."

"Frank, perhaps you should see the cover art."

"You call that art? It's a Polaroid of a shed! And you have four blank white pages on the inside. It's about as exciting as a shot of tap water on the rocks. That's just wasting paper! And it takes two CDs to hold that mush? It's 81 minutes long. Just cut off seven minutes of fat and go with one. It's just pompous. In fact, why would heaven be so wasteful? I thought God would have his kit together. Weren't the wasteful supposed to go to hell? Wait on minute... Underworld... waste... You rat bastards! This ain't heaven!"

"Get him Caesar!"

-Brent DiCrescenzo