"American Gods" continues to keep me awe-struck. Unless Gaiman nose-dives (and I think he's too controlled a storyteller to foul up the end with the usual consumer-friendly cliches), this one's going to join "Titus Groan," "Cryptonomicon" and "Perdido Street Station" on my list of Big Importantly Weird Books.

The apartment down the stairs from mine is newly vacant; I ran into the manager showing the immaculately clean and deceptively spacious empty rooms to a prospective renter. And the elevator's been carpeted -- finally.

Some of my existential funk has lifted, leaving me with an ominous sense that something awful is going to happen. But I think I'd rather put up with the sense of incipient awfulness than the existential funk, so I'm considering myself fortunate.

Streets damp and warm
Empty smell metal
Weeds between buildings
Pictures on my hard drive
But I'm the luckiest guy
Not the loneliest guy

--David Bowie, "The Loneliest Guy"