This book utterly lacks any note of credibility. It reads like someone's loony fantasy notion of how 'cool' and 'special' it would be to be seen as a 'recovering alcoholic' -- someone who thus receives full lifetime membership in the "I'm damaged goods, therefore I am" club. It's also another symptom of the cancer on the publishing industry: books about nothing more than the author's dreary, vapid life. When are writers going to start writing about subjects worth knowing about and stop taking self-serving advantage of the public's appetite for these cheesy McBooks?