The entire issue of Dixon reading the Cast’s (and Lin-Manuel Miranda’s speech) has taken on the most gargantuanly horrifying, gentrified proportions. It is art’s responsibility to question, to be disruptive, to challenge and to cause cracks in the Blue Velvet drawing-room curtains, white-picket fences and perfect sidewalks. Whether in Black-tie Manhattan or as a junkie writing plays from jail as did Miguel Piñero. It’s the artist’s job to unearth and examine, not anesthetize us for the sake of simple servant entertainment. And as to what’s rude? Donald Trump is smoking crack believing he can speak to anyone (besides those he pays or to his own family–neither of which is justification for his boorishness) with injunctions like those he tweets regularly, with vulgarity and coarseness.