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COLUMN 110, OCTOBER 1, 2004
(Copyright 2004 The Blacklisted Journalist) 

A LAMENT ON THE DEATH OF ONE OF MY CLOSEST PERSONAL FRIENDS,
JOHN DAVID GEIER


JOHN DAVID GEIER

I wrote the following to deliver at the funeral last September 11 of one of my closest personal friends, John David Geier.  You can learn a little more about John by reading something he wrote about his life on the Caribbean Isle of Dominica, where he built a house for himself and apartments for tourists after his aging father, George Geier, sold the family's homestead in New Jersey. Being with John was always a bunch of laughs, but when the time came for me to get up before the assembled mourners at the First Presbyterian Church of Bernardsville, New Jersey, I was too overwrought to read it. Instead, I just got up and, between sobs and tears, I said whatever came to mind. The following may mean little to readers. I publish it here to memorialize my anguish at the death of one of my closest personal friends.

One of the most precious things that life can give you is a true friend.

I met John when he was 17 because he was Bruce DeForeest's buddy and Bruce was my buddy. I was managing the Myddle Class then and now, some 40 years later, John would be delighted to know there's a record company that wants to put out a Myddle Class album. Eventually Bruce and I drifted apart but John was always there for me.

He was the most magnanimous host who ever threw a party. Who among us will ever forget the farewell party he threw when his venerable father George sold his New Jersey homestead? Or his wedding party for the marriage of his daughter, Corey, to Matthias? Or his party celebrating the baptism of his dear little Sophie. Thank God he lived to enjoy the greatest pleasure old age can give a man---a grandchild!

He suffered great emotional pain during his lifetime but he always remained a harbinger of good cheer. He could talk your head off. His father, George, called him "motormouth." John was a builder. He made the most meticulous drawings to fashion his most meticulous carpentry. How many homeowners are today proud to show off the kitchens he built for them!

Together with Bruce DeForeest, he built New York's premiere rock Club, The Bottom Line. Later, alone, he rebuilt it. His greatest achievement was his home and apartments for tourists that even today faces a deadly hurricane in the Caribbean. At the beginning of this summer we made a date to see each other at the end of the summer and this is how he keeps his date?  

I figured that if I could get angry enough I could keep my composure without breaking up on the occasion of his funeral and so I'm angry that he didn't keep his date. John was the kind of friend I could always count on and I feel he let me down by dying on me. He has deprived me of one of the most precious things in my life--- one of my truest best friends.

* * *

The following lyrics, written by John for In The Quiet Of My Sleep, a song he wrote with our mutual friend, Danny Douma, were distributed at the church. In Danny's address to the mourners---much lighter than mine---he explained why being with John was always a bunch of laughs.  

In the quiet of my sleep
I can hear the angels weep
In the quiet of my sleep
 

Baby, save your tears
It's the miles not the years

          I heard the workman leave this mornin'
   I guess it's just the life I's born in  

I guess I'm not the chosen one
For me it's only kingdom come
Please let tomorrow keep me warm
Please let tomorrow keep me warm
 

In the quiet of my sleep
I can hear the angels weep
In the quiet of my sleep  ##


FOR AS LONG AS PEOPLE KEEP LISTENING TO BOB DYLAN AND THE BEATLES, PEOPLE WILL WANT THIS BOOK

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