Easturn Stars was a transgender-queer-lesbian-feminist-afro-american-revolutionary-anarchist-avant-pop-art & music micro-collective. Easturn Stars was a tiny crack in the armor of empire. Easturn Stars was a swelling, bleeding sore on the fat white ass of boring whitebread middle -American bad taste, packaged as good taste. Easturn Stars was so far ahead of its time, beyond its time and out of all time, that it will be decades before the rest of the world even starts to catch up. Easturn Stars was a beautiful thing. Crazed and crazy, totally, brilliantly and drunkenly, psychotically out of control, Easturn Stars could turn small, forgettable failures, tiny moments in the secret history of the counter-counter culture into enormous anti-artistic masterworks. One such moment, perhaps the greatest such moment ever was the moment (the second time in as many weeks to be historically correct) that they were unplugged after just a few songs during their “set” at the new wave club called 688 at 688 Spring Street in 1984. A pivotal year that was! 1984 was a year that still sounds like the dangerous dystopian future to my ears, yet it was a time of new things for the small movement Easturn Stars helped to create. Can we call it a movement without choking on the word? We cannot but what the heck! I know that somewhere in the heaven that he knew did not exist Benjamin is laughing his skinny white ass off and stumbling around among the clouds, a needle happily dangling from his vein saying "Glen you fucking loser, I can't believe you are still at it!" Cabbage and Roz and Lori and Kathleen and Benji warned us with their sweet & nasty songs about what was going down. They laid the foundation for dozens of small important things to follow. And they also told us what to do about it “We are fucking the land lord.” It was as simple and profound as that: fucking as an artistic, rebellious act. It still works today, a revolution of everyday life indeed. If those kids (forever kids they are) were with us in these believe it or not even worse times, they would be fucking the hell out of president Cheney. Don’t doubt it. And he would fucking love it. As Benjamin said with typical delightfully indecent, prescient brevity, clarity and charm “Don’t stop us now, my pussy is just beginning to itch.” Please don't stop them now or ever.