When I wrote this and mentioned that modern day Morrissey is sliding into oblivion faster than his hairline and will soon (hopefully) take up residency in Las Vegas, I was being complimentary. The hatemail we received on the article indicates that I clearly did not get my point across. To fellow my fellow Mozists, my apologies.

But if you have seen a Morrissey show in the past handful of years—never in Portland, mind you—it's clear that his best days are in the past, as he willfully plays up the silly camp that we've all come to expect from him. Just like you don't pay good money to see Tom Jones and not hear "What's New Pussycat?" while pelting the geriatric crooner with a balled-up pair of mom's lace underwear, you don't witness Morrissey without the hugging, stage invasions, bouquets of flowers, shirt ripping, conversations with Julia, and various other dramatics that we associate with the man. While it might never happen, Vegas is a welcome conclusion to the Morrissey saga, one where he could shack up in some resort (with an all-you-can-eat vegan buffet), do a pair of shows a night, and cash in on his all glorious accomplishments. It's a natural fit.

Then again, what do I know? I'm just a simple man. A simple man who plans on barreling past security tonight and hugging the fuck out of Morrissey.