American Gods
by Neil Gaiman
Once I was standing in the
boiler room at the House on the Rock located near Gnome, Wisconsin. A tiny town
that featured gnomes of all shapes and sizes on every lawn. I think they took
it all quite seriously. The insanity of the entire place, let alone the boiler
room, hit me while staring at the naked mannequins with 80s hair and makeup
hanging off the ceiling with wings attached. The walls were blood red and while
it was a sizeable room, it felt claustrophobic because of the amount of things
crammed into it. In it was the largest
carousel in the world and a series of symphonic robots playing cellos and
violins with missing strings that seemed to have been tuned back when they bought
the mannequins. I had a panic attack and saw nothing more of the House on the Rock.
Revisiting it in Neil Gaiman’s American Gods made it much more fun. The
carousel in the boiler room is a meeting point for all the bastardized imported
gods from the old world that have all become oddly American. Is Neil Gaiman
British? Is he American? I don’t know, but he got my favorite band and long
time friends to play his birthday party in New Orleans and I wasn’t invited.
Bummer. I still think Neil Gaiman rules (though next time invite me, ok?) and
this story captures a piece of what I’ve always wanted to write. Playing on the
theological beliefs come to life and wreak havoc on the people who either do or
don’t believe in them, like a modern day American polytheist version of Master
and Marguerita.
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