For the past few weeks, we've been having a warm spell in Chicago. Besides a light dusting of snow around Christmas (a nice touch), it's olive drab grass all around; we even had a 55-degree day last Wednesday. No more. It's 20 degrees and falling, and windy as the city itself. By Sunday we are expected to have temperatures in the single digits.

But no matter, it is January, after all.

I've been reading Neil Gaiman's American Gods in paperback on the "L" and the Metra train to and from work -- what a great book. I'm about 300 pages into it, and the worst part is I almost missed my train stop last night because I was so absorbed.

Let me give you a little sample. Shadow, a recently released convict (not a really bad guy, just got mixed up with the wrong people) finds out his wife, Laura, has been killed in a car crash two days before he's due to be sprung from the slammer - the same car crash that claimed the life of his friend, the owner of a gym who'd promised Shadow a job upon his release. I won't give away the reason why Laura was in the car with Shadow's friend - or why they crashed - but let's just say you shouldn't be a passenger with your mouth full - if you catch my drift. For Shadow, a hulking silent type (but a closet intellectual of sorts), not a great way to start your new post-prison life.

On a prearranged flight home, Shadow meets a mysterious man named...Wednesday. Mr. Wednesday, to be precise. How does he know Shadow's name? Why does he offer him a job, sight unseen? I'll give away one detail - Mr. Wednesday is really a manifestation of the Norse god whom that day is named for: yes, the All-Father himself, Odin. He's alive, mostly well, but he's seen better days; so have all the other gods that still live amongst us, blending in, making their way in the world. Egyptian deities Anubis and Thoth are a pair of undertakers named Jaquel and Ibis, the goddess Bastet is their brown cat, and they've catered to the African-American community for over 200 years in southern Illinois.

Ancient Russo-Slavic deities Czernobog (the Black God), Bielobog (the White God), and the Triple Goddess/sisters of dawn, dusk and midnight are living in an old brownstone in Chicago, serving up boiled cabbage and pot roast to their guests. Hindi goddess Kali is a middle-aged East Indian woman in a red sari (doing quite well, thank you, as she was old in Kalighat - or Kalikat, Calcutta - long before Odin was born), and a Yoruban orixa is now old, works the snack concession at the World's Largest Merry-Go-Round at the House On The Rock in Wisconsin, and calls himself Mr. Nancy. The Queen of Sheba (also known by her name of old, Bilquis) is a "working girl" who meets a tragic end. Even the Buffalo God, Wisakedjack, and Johnny Appleseed show up for a spell (literally).

No matter. These are just appearances. Look deeper, and you will see their true, glorious faces of old. The black-skinned eater of men's soul's with a cinture of skulls, the strong dark man who rides a golden lion...the jackal and the ibis (Jacquel and Ibis, funeral directors...get it? heh heh.)

But trouble is brewing - a storm of sorts - as the new, limo-riding, synthetic-toad-skin smoking ("did you know they can make artificial bufotenin these days?") gods of telephone and Internet arrogantly conspire to kill off the old gods, whose lives depend on people's belief in them. Shadow and Odin travel the highways and byways - the ley-lines of this modern age, after all - seeking to recruit the aging gods to battle against those new kids on the block.

Gaiman spins a fantastical tale of magical places in America (he is a transplanted Brit, after all) - like Chicago, Madison, Wisconsin, "The House On The Rock", Milwaukee, Minnesota, San Francisco, the Dakotas - I'm fascinated why he chose the Midwest for his register of "power spots", but in a way I can see why. There is a strange feel to the Midwest that just can't be explained naturally. Maybe there's something to it?

He's even given a nod to Culver's Frozen Custard and Butterburgers (Shadow chows down on 2 of them during a road trip), now there's the food of the Gods. It's a rich, dark tale worthy of the Sandman author - I recommend it highly. You won't even miss the pictures, and you don't have to wait a month between issues. So, pick up a paperback copy of American Gods, pour yourself a coffee or bevvie of your choice, and sink you teeth into this meaty tome.

How does it end? That I don't know yet - but I know I'll miss it when it's done.

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