The 16-year-old version of myself must hate me right now. I've broken so many promises, forgotten so many credos and I never got the chance to marry Michael Hutchence. But now that I have committed the ultimate sin against my teenage convictions, I'm not sure I can ever win her back. She hated The Smiths with a passion; I love them. Though I totally wore black on the outside ('cause that's how I felt on the inside), there was a good reason for my hatred of all things Moz at the time: My best friend sported a pompadour and was widely known for his gladiola—and chiffon—enhanced sartorial sense. He beat you over the head with everything Smiths so much that you just couldn't like it. As far as I was concerned, The Smiths could take their girlfriends in comas and rockabilly hairdos and pretentious lyrics and walk right into an oncoming double-decker bus. And then last week I went with the... More >>>