Reading Pete Townshend’s autobiography Who I Am. I’ve only reached the part about his childhood and adolescence, but already it feels like home — talented, attractive parents too distracted by their own miserable drama to acknowledge their child, let alone admit that he might have some artistic gifts. Pete goes on a river camping trip and hears angel voices that none of the other boys can hear. The age-old complication is this: you desperately want to fit in, as a child and adolescent, yet every gesture and word puts mileage between you and your peers. You hate being different, and it takes years to acknowledge, own, and love the gifts of eccentric creativity (my case) and sheer genius (Pete’s case) that make you such a peculiar creature. Like a homing pigeon, some unerring instinct led me to select Pete Townshend as an idol and crush way back when I was eighteen. Looking at Pete in all his flawed glory, I’d say I chose well.