"There's also the speculation of how lonely is would be in Heaven when one's friends were all down below."

Heaven for climate, Hell for company. (Mark Twain, I do believe).

Hell would be as described in a short story in Bluegrass Unlimited once, long ago. It goes like this:

The hero arrives after death in a room filled with pre-War Martin D-28s and Gibson Mastertones and F-5 mandolins, and each one he picks up plays like butter. "Take your pick!" he's told. He picks out his instrument and goes out the door, where he's on-stage with the best pickers he can think of. Every song is effortless, on tune, on time, every solo is like he doesn't even have to think about it or work at it.

It's great! He tries songs he's never heard, and they roll off his fingertips like he was the best studio musician ever. He can even sing -- lead, baritone, high tenor harmony, with no strain, like it's an instinct -- and he was never able to do that in life. This must be heaven!

But in a few weeks, he longs for the challenge, the thrill of trying something he didn't know he could do, because now he doesn't even have to try. Being perfect has become boring. In a couple of months, it's worse, so he says, "This feels like hell to me." The bass player says, "So? Where did you think you were?"


Bob