As a gay man in his 30's, I actually think the kid needs to go the hell away. Go suck off Pete Wentz, please. You're either in the mix, or you're in the way.
Yes, I reach my hand out. Yes, he makes a point of taking my hand. Yes, I'm thrilled that he does. I'm over 30 and gay -- leave me to my little pleasures. If the kid bought a crap seat (i.e. not up front) it's great to have seat fillers. Thank you, drop dead.
There isn't a "Morrissey" for these kids because their attention span is so minute that they love Panic at the Disco for 45 minutes and then... nothing. There's nothing there. Sorry, love, but we (the devoted) actually invest time, money, and serious thought into our hero. To love Morrissey takes more devotion than I give to my partner (13 years) and he knows that.
When I ordered six of the "naked" shirts and sealed four of them in an acid-free bag with a silica packet, he didn't even blink. The Morrissey soap (yes, it exists) that my friend, my love, my hitchiker Denise sent me. It's in a cute acrylic cube in the downstairs loo. All of the weird things that I do (for love of Morrissey) are accepted because he's a strange part of my day-to-day life.
Oh well... indie rock fag will never learn. He'll never know the devotion, the love, the joy, and the hysterical fun that is being a Morrissey fan. His loss.