I just learned that Aldous Huxley used to live in an apartment right across from the one I lived in for nine years.
I have no idea why this makes me smile, but it does. It does not
validate my existence. It is completely meaningless. He died 38 days
after I was born. So it’s not like I’m gonna run into him when he
comes back because he forgot a box of underpants when he moved out or
anything.
The building I lived in for nine years is HUGE, by the way, and so is
the one Aldous Huxley lived in facing me, so this is hardly a surprise. Warren Zevon lived in my
building. I’d see him in the mail room. Kato Kaelin used to visit
somebody on the floor above me. I’d see him in the elevator
sometimes. David Carradine almost walked right into me once. No idea
what he was doing there. The publisher of Screw magazine had a place in the back. You’d see girls coming and going sometimes, and just know where they were headed.
I could go on with a dozen other names (and will someday; I’m sure it’s
quite a list if I ever sit down and write it), but you get the idea.
Y’know those TV ads (or California gubernatorial races) where they slam
34 different B-list celebrities into the same commercial, just to get your
attention? This was that. I used to live in one of those, 24/7.
Almost everyone on Earth has
lived or will live in my old building at one time. Probably including
you. So I should be used to this sort of thing. Aldous Huxley should
be one more name on the stack.
But for some reason this strikes me as actually cool. Aldous Huxley. Neat.

