Mr. Outerspace Says Hi (On Reminiscence)

Peter Geiberger was a jerk whose words were fused with sarcasm and prone to insult with the purpose to infuriate those who displeased him.

He was also a good friend, full of humor, caring and loyalty for those he found worthwhile.

A little over eight years ago was found dead of a heroine overdose. And though we had grown distant, we were once close friends, making his loss deeply affecting.

The last time we spoke was in early 2006 at a cafe in Silverlake about seven months before his death. Peter told me about his activities, including his year in New Orleans, his time in jail, and his multiple stints in rehab.

I had previously been aware of his descent into addiction, but the picture he painted was bleaker and sadder than I had imagined. He told these stories with a humor and practicality that was uniquely his.

Soon after we were joined by his Narcotics Anonymous sponsor, and after a brief introduction the two were gone.

A few months later I was now on the other side of the world starting a new life with Peter far from my mind.

The weekend of my birthday that year another friend, Sergey, came to visit me in Armenia. The first and second nights were excellent examples of alcohol induced debauchery and the third would have followed suit had I not learned of Peter's passing.

As planned we went out to a nightclub called Pyramid, both next to and underneath the Yerevan Opera House. We were to meet two young women who had extended invitations to us the night before.

There, as promised, was the alcohol, ladies, and the potential for fun; but I found that I could only sit at the table in shock, tears flowing.

The following summer I returned to LA for a visit. My final night I was out with a friend sitting at a diner reliving memories of Peter, lamenting his loss, and trying to make sense of his absence.

But even as we tried rationalized the loss, exploring excuse after excuse, there was no certainty in our words and no good answers.

For a long time thereafter thinking about Peter filled me with guilt and regret. The feeling of responsibility for allowing him to sink into self-destruction was pervasive, and my inability to offer him the support he needed seemed was a fatal shortcoming.

I am uncertain when I overcame those feelings, but the reality is Peter was and intelligent and insightful person who understood the risks of his choices and chose them anyway.When he made his way into the bathroom stall at the Biltmore Hotel, heroine in tow, he knew he may not come out.

Peter was a talented individual with unique way of understanding and interacting with the world. He dabbled in a variety of arts, and his tastes and interests were ahead of the curve, offering insights into culture that could be described as prescient.

The tragedy of his loss is never getting to see the maturation of his music, writing and art.

He called himself Mr. Outerspace and eight years later and it is still difficult to accept that he is gone.