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Below are the 2 most recent journal entries recorded in Quigley's LiveJournal:

    Friday, December 9th, 2033
    8:09 pm
    The past is a(nother) c(o)unt(ry)


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    Vaganza*.

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    Vaganza live, summer 1998



    Blurry photos of me and David Wallingford, circa 1993. It's a shame better photos of this particular period seem to be impossible to track down.



    Clearer photos of me and David Wallingford, circa 1993. It appears as though we're in front of CBGB on this particular evening.



    Me, our dear friend Sandy Lieb, and David, circa 1993 (possibly early '94); at the now, from what I understand, legendary Coney Island High









    Assorted blurry live photos I'm currently too lazy to caption.



    A personal fave, completely "out of costume" shot of David and I, circa 1998.

    ADDITIONALLY, HERE'S A RELATIVELY RANDOM PHOTOGRAPHIC TOUR THROUGH SOME PORTION (1986- 2000) OF THE LIFE OF QUIGLEY...

    As background info; before Vaganza, between the ages of 15-20, I was in a dreadful little "of our era" late-80s indie combo called Skunk.

    "We were just your typical greasy, longhaired kids listening to Sabbath and Stooges and pouring into a van and that whole bit--that whole thing that got really, really big just around the time that I decided to start wearing makeup!"

    -Yours Truly, speaking of Skunk during a Vaganza era interview




    The first Skunk "photo session". L-R: A very husky, and very young, version of me, with Stephan Apicella-Hitchcock, and Matt Sweeney (circa 1986).


    Early Skunk "photo session" in my Maplewood, New Jersey bedroom (circa 1987). L-R: Matt Sweeney (later of Chavez, and Zwan, as well as a collaborator with Will Oldham, Guided By Voices, and a million, or at least a dozen, other noteworthy acts), me, Claude (who in those days went by Matt) Coleman who's best known for being Ween's drummer for a very long time, and Stephan Apicella-Hitchcock (who is now an artist, photographer, scholar, and professor, among other things of note).

    You see what we have here is a classic male, teenaged, suburban dynamic. We've got the pretty boy, the wise-guy, the black dude and, well -- with no one left, or willing, to take the job, the mantle bestowed upon me -- the fat kid (the dirtiest, and most chaste, of the roles, but someone had to do it... and alas I was the one with all the Twinkies). With this fearsome foursome, this classic combo right out of central casting, there really is little excuse for our not having been a better band.


    The big fat biker/Meat Loaf looking fella seated there, all 285 lbs. (no exaggeration, I was a massive, hairy child) and only 16 years of age, is me. The rest are assorted NYC rock and roll hispters of that time, and two random bikini chicks at Limelight here in NYC.



    Here I am tipping the scales at easily over 100 lbs. from where I'm at as I type this, standing beside my then constant sidekick Simon (aka Semen Sperms, Free Simon, etc.). (Circa 1987)


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    The back cover photo from Skunk's debut Twin/Tone Records L.P. "Last American Virgin" (circa 1989, after I'd lost about 100 pounds)

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    Another Skunk photo


    Sexually secure, teenaged male bonding. Skunk photo session (1989).


    Here's 3/4 of the then Skunk line-up, with our road manager and great friend Paul Sommerstein (now a rock 'n' roll attorney, as well as humbling and impressive marathon runner), just moments before embarking upon our first national tour, in August 1989. The Boris Vallejo t-shirt shown here upon my person was being worn in the obnoxious, ironic spirit of many worthless Gen X gestures, but is also a sincere tribute to a much fatter, and a then very recently passed adolescence chock full o' role playing games, heavy metal music, and Heavy Metal magazine. It's also a nod to Skunk's hometown of Maplewood, NJ where the great Boris at that time still resided. (l-r: Me, Sweeney, Coleman, Paul).


    Skunk at their finest, with Tim "Rock 'n' Roll" Aaron (second from left, looking badass as he always did... and at 24, an old man in our teenaged view) on 2nd lead guitar. This line-up never released anything, and it's a shame as we were never better. Never even close, in truth. A collection of basement demos of this line-up is to soon be released on Thurston Moore's Ecstatic Peace records, apparently. While they're a nice relic, they don't do this line-up justice. For the one year lifespan of this configuration, we almost resembled a real band. However, we also hated each other's guts (just like a real band).


    A photo of the above described line-up, with Paul, taken by my dear friend Jenn Miko (a terrific photographer) on the campus of the now recently defunct Antioch College in Ohio. (l-r: Quigley, Coleman, Paul, Tim, Sweeney).

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    Insert photo from Skunk's 1991 sophomore and final L.P. Laid. Recorded immediately after kicking Tim "Rock 'n' Roll" Aaron out of the band, and released after we already, more or less, had broken up altogether. The album captures us as a pale shadow of the band we'd been only a year prior. But, we sort of hated Tim and at the time that seemed more important than not sucking.

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    Stills from Skunk's Beauty Crawls and Knobb Off videos (circa 1991: they can be viewed, in a Quicktime window approximately the size of a postage stamp, here: http://www.twintone.com/movies/skunk-knob.mov and here: http://www.twintone.com/movies/skunk-beauty.mov)


    Quigley's passport, early Vaganza days (May '94)


    And here I am meeting my childhood hero, Bryan Ferry in November of 1994


    This is me on stage in January 2000, during a three gig stint serving as an interim bass player in Luna.
    Monday, August 18th, 2008
    6:28 pm
    My pants, of eight years past, explained
    In January and February of 2000 I played three performances with the rock band Luna, filling in as their bass player. They had been fond acquaintances of mine for a while by that point and their co-founding bassist, Justin Harwood, had decided to take, what was initially believed to be, a temporary leave of absence. They asked me if I'd be willing to audition to play some gigs with them until Justin returned, and I said yes. After jamming with them only once, they offered me the gig. Out of work and without a band, I happily took it.

    This year Dean Wareham, Luna's leader, published his memoir, Black Postcards. A couple of weeks ago a friend informed me that I ranked a mention within its pages, and today I was in a bookseller and remembered, all these months after it hit shelves, to find and thumb through a copy to see what was up.

    In the book Dean writes of me warmly and kindly, in his dry and unadorned prose style. This was genuinely nice to read, as the feeling's mutual; Dean's a truly ace guy. He then adds, accurately, that after the few shows I played with them it was painfully apparent that I just didn't make sense as Luna's bass player. From me, about this, he will get no argument.

    He goes on, though, to recall that the extent to which I didn't fit with Luna was either exacerbated, or possibly illustrated (I don't have the book in front of me), by the fact that during one of our shows together I was wearing what he describes as "pleated khakis." This is recounted after he writes, only a couple of paragraphs prior, of ultimately not hiring another bassist for his having auditioned using an allegedly cheesy-looking custom bass.

    I am not, as I type this, a fashion plate in my day to day life, but this is not so much due to an ignorance on my part. I don't think I wore pleated khakis, surely not on stage, but now posterity (ISBN 9781594201554) says otherwise. Apparently, to read Dean's account of things (which I've little reason to doubt), Luna's lead guitarist, Sean Eden, took it upon himself to say otherwise with exceptional frequency; seemingly for the remainder of Luna's history (which stretched on for another four years), whenever the topic of my brief Luna tenure was broached.

    As there are real things to worry about in this life, I should be above caring. Being painted as a clueless square in print, however, is just precisely the sort of thing my frail pride refuses to accept. So, to rebut on behalf of my leggings, and to allow them their voice...

    During the short time I played with Luna I was going through 1,001 simultaneous and ever-evolving crises of conscience. Some of these manifested themselves as reactionary and theatrical disavowals of the useless slob I believed myself to have become. It was largely a bit of melodramatic penance in keeping with my daily living on the shaky footing of a newly minted sobriety -- only about 9 months, or so, off the sauce at the time I played with Luna, up to my eyeballs in AA rhetoric, and appropriately batshit bonkers -- and an effort on my part to assimilate into polite society (and there was the pragmatic matter -- at least so far as I saw it at the time -- of my reading as "employable"). I rejected my years of dressing either as what was essentially a filthy bum, or as a space-age, gratingly camp, pimp/clown (I alternated depending on the extent to which my band was active at a given time), and instead took to consciously donning the unassuming apparel of a harmless square. It was a very "12-Step," sort of semi-Catholic, self-flagellating place I was in at the time. I had allowed my hair to return to its natural color and wore it in a presentable cut, and I dressed in what I know to have been a relatively forgettable and innocuous way.

    I was, I guess, reborn or something. Who knows? I was fucking nuts.

    Anyway, my outfits included harmless, although it could be argued by some regrettable, items such as Banana Republic dress slacks, and maybe some Gap pants. I'll confess there were a pair or two of Liz Claiborne pants, down the front of the legs of which one might have found a crease. These trousers were by no means the height of rock 'n' roll fashion (which I knew at the time, for what it's worth). They were also not -- as Dean Wareham's memoir so cruelly implies -- Dockers, or other such unfortunate drawers. Since I was mocked in a book, I hope you'll allow me to add that although Luna may have had it together in the sartorial sense -- I'll reserve judgment, because I actually don't give a shit -- in most other regards they were also quite decidedly not what I'd consider the height of rock 'n' roll fashion.

    A lovely, sweet, smart bunch of guys -- Dean and Sean particularly; the drummer I did not know well, and he didn't seem to like me -- however (and the analogy is not only handy, but remarkably apt) they were themselves the rock 'n' roll equivalent of pleated khakis.

    Although they broke up a few years back, long may they rock -- in their decidedly beige, comfortable, and functional "business casual" fashion -- in peace.

    P.S. -- Since I'm setting the record straight, I was never -- and never did I claim to ever have been -- friends with Courtney Love, as the book also implies.
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