I received an advance copy of this from Penguin Books' First to Read program.
I'm not sold on "How to Grow Up." To its credit, it is an easy read. Tea is witty. Her descriptions are deadpan, irreverent, and at times, made me laugh out loud. Structurally, it is somewhat schizophrenic. I'm not sure if this is a memoir made of essays or a memoir made of essays with a few self-help how-to lists; what kind of book am I dealing with here? Maybe Tea is going for a style inspired by Quentin Crisp, and if that's the case, I'll give her a pass.
However, I have a real problem with the substance of the memoir. Perhaps it was unavoidable, given that Tea and I are very close in age, had very similar experiences throughout our twenties (although I was in NYC, not SF, and my vices never rose to the level of addiction), and we seem to be on the same page with respect to our socio-political beliefs. I know her "story" because it's a lot like mine. Like Tea, I wanted to write about my life, because I thought my ideas were so wacky, so off the beaten path, and it was of the utmost importance that the world know how oh-so persecuted I was for liking different music, wearing Doc Martens, and having drag queens as friends. But that was a couple of decades ago, and I've gained a bit of perspective since then. Tea would like you to think she's done the same, dropping little qualifiers implying she is no longer the out of control, angry wild child fueled by booze and narcotics; at least one paragraph of each essay seems to end with a sentence telling you she's all grown up now, 12-stepped and monogamous. Yet she has an awfully tight, almost clenched grasp on these memories of her bad old days, which is all the more frustrating, even disingenuous, when they are encased in a book titled "How to Grow Up."
The book has a couple of bright spots. The vignette about the author's wedding was exceptional. It was straightforward, genuine, and Tea's talented narrative transported me to the Swedish-American club in which she married and her guests ate BBQ and pie. Unfortunately, stories like that were overshadowed by tiring tales about how she was unimpressed by college life and proudly got her degree from the School of Hard Knocks, how she was lousy at keeping jobs in high school because she had dyed hair, she camped out for New Order tickets, how the needle injecting her with Botox hurt, but not too badly, because she was used to needles, what, with all her tattoos, and how she found her higher calling after she discovered zines and began staging poetry events, because, in case you hadn't been reading for the last two hundred pages--she is creative and she is an artist!
One reviewer of this book mentioned that he thought Tea's subject matter was low-hanging fruit, and I think that is apt. Reading How to Grow Up was like hearing a joke to which I already knew the punchline...over and over again.