An admittedly US-centric take on The Morrissey Problem:

My generation liked to believe that the conditions that made you a weird and despised outsider were often a crucible from which you could emerge as an increasingly strong and capable advocate for people who did (and will also) suffer as you did.

A lot of us imagined ourselves becoming post-punk mentors who could shepherd younger weirdos, and assure them that, while life was not a solvable problem, it was definitely at least a survivable large-scale junior high.

Come. Sit at my lunch table.

But, I feel like we inadequately controlled for how many people who survive a crucible paradoxically learn to respect the flame—while also despising the ashy detritus that they *almost* became.

It strikes me as a basic poor kid problem.

Hey, a worthless shit like me can survive and prosper in hopeless conditions, so you who struggle but fail must be some seriously basic garbage people.

I hope that’s not horribly glib and reductive, but I do feel like it’s a thing that happens.

You’ve fooled the system, and now survival hangs entirely upon your also perpetually fooling yourself.

I’m different than the other pitiful outcasts. I am demonstrably better.

So, what does this have to do with the problematic Steven Patrick?

Jeez. I’m not entirely sure.

I guess I just feel like most of the hopes we hung on him now ultimately feel like our own trip.

The way we took up the too-clever persona of his lyrics was OUR fantasy.

We wanted desperately to sit at his lunch table.

We hoped to hear that we’d somehow be okay.

La la la.

So, I can never know the man’s heart or even begin to long-distance analyze his intentions.

As ever, he’s got a lot going on and, even assuming all the best intentions, he, like a lot of us, enjoys being a contrarian for its own sake.

My thought tonight to you regardless of age, gender, continent, political leaning, sexual pie graph, or dietary preference:

Make a lunch table to help some actual kid who needs it.

Find someone who needs help like you needed “How Soon is Now?” and get them what they need.

They are human, and they need to be loved.

Even if Morrissey has become a hugely disappointing dick.

Don’t let him define the exit terms of your crucible.