Guilty Pleasures
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“Welcome to Heaven,” said God, and this threw me. “Oh no, f-ck, oh f-ck, am I dead?” I asked, and God was like “No, it’s fine—I mean yes, you’re dead, but there’s no reason to worry about it, I think you’ll find yourself surprised at the perspective from up here.”
I did find this calming, at least a little bit, and was for the first time able to take in my surroundings. We were ensconced within an endless expanse of the most beautiful light—golden-hour-sunset and blazing-pastel-sunrise at the same time, all sky and air and possibility—but also somehow indoors, holding our conversation in a parochial corridor lined with transom-topped doorways and long wooden benches. There was neither a pearl nor a gate in sight, but this was obviously some sort of vestibule or waiting area for the Great Beyond.
While I'm describing things: God was…not what I expected, though to be fair I hadn't spent a lot of time thinking about Him in any sort of tangible capacity. He wasn’t even actually a him, more of a kaleidoscopic series of orbs, suspended off the ground, glowing and sort of geode-like. The best I can liken it to is a James Turrell situation, but even that’s not entirely accurate.
So what happens now?” I asked, and The Orb launched into what was clearly a very practiced spiel about how each of the Earth’s religions had a little something right but mostly a lot wrong, that it was totally cool to be gay, etc., etc., stuff like that. They said Heaven was accessible to everyone who’d more or less tried their best during their time on Earth, but there would be a mandatory reading of one’s venial transgressions before they could enter.
“It’s sort of a non-negotiable,” said The Orb, which I guess I understood, at least to a certain extent, as much as I understood any of this. I was always more of an I believe in the universe kind of person, and had assumed that when I died everything would just sort of…stop. I’d go to sleep forever, never to think or dream or listen to a long list of all the ways I’d behaved badly in my 20s. And 30s. And 40s, too, if I’m being honest.
“Ok then,” I sighed, “Let’s get on with it.” It was a far more extensive cataloguing than I thought it would be, though purely observational, and recounted without judgment. I let my sins wash over me while lying flat on one of the benches, and after an actual eternity it was done. I stretched and stood up, ready to see what the afterlife was all about.
“You might want to sit back down,” The Orb said, leaning over to plug in an overhead projector. “We need to discuss your taste in music.” They cranked the knob at its head left and right as the first of a towering stack of transparencies struggled into focus. Guilty Pleasures, it read, with the “G” and the “P” looking frighteningly Old Testament.
“There’s no such thing as a guilty pleasure,” I said, and would have been smug in my certainty had I not just been dinged multiple times for being a know-it-all during my time on Earth. Still, I was sure I’d just passed some sort of final test; one last quality assurance before checking into the Great Hereafter.
“Is that true?” The Orb asked absentmindedly, swapping in a blank sheet and reaching for a blue Dry-Erase marker. It squeaked under the pressure of their first accusation: “Hook” by Blues Traveler; for the second, they switched to red and black markers and started laying down that f-ck-ass Red Hot Chili Peppers logo. I gasped in response.
The next transparency contained a handful of True/False questions:
True | False
“Gimme More" by Britney Spears is ”a masterpiece."
True | False
“Smooth” by Santana featuring Rob Thomas has been the Song of the Summer every summer since 1999.
True | False
That one Benson Boone song? Really?
“Oh my GOD,” I said, and The Orb looked at me expectantly. “You’re—you’re—” I could barely get it out. “You’re a music snob?”
“I don’t like to be painted with that brush,” they said, clearly a little hurt, “But I do have access to all of humanity’s cultural output, so…it’s hard not to be?” They swapped in a transparency containing the lyrics-in-full for “Ants Marching” by Dave Matthews Band.
“Well what do you listen to, then?” I asked, starting to get irritated.
“I mean, my library is pretty comprehensive," they answered, “But right now I’m focusing on early Hailu Mergia, Jonathan Richman's entire catalog, and a handful of unreleased Sly & The Family Stone tracks from Questlove’s personal collection."
I had to admit that was pretty f-cking cool, and The Orb seemed pleased by this. “But look,” I bargained, “I feel like Dave Matthews was inches away from complete cultural vindication, and the Red Hot Chili Peppers…I mean, John Frusc—”
They cut me off. “The Frusciante Defense doesn’t work up here, but yeah, you’re right. If you’d stayed on Earth just a short while longer you would have seen redemption for David.” This should have felt like an adrenaline hit, but instead it just reminded me that I was dead. It was depressing to be dead, and when I’m depressed I listen to Kesha. A no-win situation.
“I’m not sure where all this is going,” I said carefully, “But is falling for a well-crafted pop hit not an inevitable and important part of the human experience? And I listened to a lot of other music, too—really good music. Objectively cool music! I could see needing to justify, like, only listening to Chris Brown or something, but occasionally indulging in Blackout-era Britney Spears? Come on. Jesus."
The Orb winced. “Please don’t bring Him up.”
“Who?" I asked, “Chris Brown?”
No," they clarified, “Jesus Christ. I tried so hard to show Him the righteous path, but all He's been listening to for the last few centuries are Gregorian chants and Creed. It's hard to not take that personally, you know?”
“I guess,” I said, "But I have to ask—when God sings with his creations, will Scott Stapp not be part of the choir?”
“He will,” said The Orb, “But when you looked down and saw only one set of footprints, it was because you were singing along to ‘Arms Wide Open’ and I had to get the f-ck out of there.”
“Fair enough,” I replied, “But am I really not getting into Heaven for having Top 40 tastes?”
“No,” said The Orb, “I'm just giving you sh-t. You can head on in. I'd ask what you wanted for your entrance music, but I think I can take a guess.”
“Thanks,” I said, then mouthed “It's Britney, b-tch” as the beat dropped.
“Guilty Pleasures” emailed out 10.6.2026 with newsletter-exclusive extras. Subscribe for free here.