Never in the history of American culture—not in the golden days of jazz, not in the anarchic explosion of the 60s, not in the coked-up arrogance of New Hollywood—has an entire class of so-called “creatives” debased themselves so thoroughly in the presence of power.
The so-called “masters of disruption, who once sold themselves as renegades, now scurrying like toads not just kissing Trump’s ring, but getting down on all fours, tongues out, licking the boot, the floor, the very dirt beneath it—smiling all the while is really something else

I have seen bootlicking before. Hollywood has its share of grovelers, yes—but at least the actors had the decency to get drunk and punch photographers. Rock stars, even at their most debased, had the sense to choke on their own vomit rather than kiss the ring of some generally upward moving swine