Drunkard A hard-drinking life

*Starred Review* Steinberg, a syndicated newspaper columnist whose world-weary observations are laced with acerbic wit, often writes about his money-eating house in a leafy Chicago suburb and the family within it. Therefore, it was shock in 2005 when a drunk Steinberg was arrested for hitting his wife. (When he asked why she called 911, she replied,  Nobody hits me, Buddy. ) Forced by the court into rehab, Steinberg chronicles his journey to sobriety, following a circuitous route that included plenty of stops in local watering holes along the way. Incredibly honest (perhaps too honest for his fellow AA members), Steinberg initially wants no part of rehab or Alcholics Anonymous. For one thing, he doesn't believe in a higher power, and if he did, he would not be inclined to surrender to it. Nor does he have much affection for his fellow addicts,  characters in a mediocre play.  What he loves is booze, and his tone turns almost jaunty as he describes his lapses. He wants a sophisticated life where he can drink, hoping liquour will turn his nebbish-like persona into Mike Royko. With every page, he realizes he can't drink and retain the family he loves, but his resistance is contagious; even disapproving readers will understand how easy it is to drink and how hard it is to stop. Frank, funny, and insightful, Steinberg writes the book of his life.--Cooper, Ilene Copyright 2008 Booklist

Steinberg, a columnist for the Chicago Sun-Times, admitted he was an alcoholic--only he'd rather be called a drunkard, a more colorful slur--only after a judge sentenced him to rehab. He'd hit his wife in an argument over his drinking; by Steinberg's initial account, before his arrest, he was living the ideal newspaperman's life--a few Jack Daniels at his regular bar after filing his popular column, a few red wines in the bar car of the commuter train to the suburbs, then a cozy evening with his loving wife and two sons. It's only after he's in rehab that he recalls all the other drinks he'd sneak when his wife or his kids weren't looking. He had no choice about going to rehab for 28 days, but couldn't see the use of going to AA meetings. An agnostic iconoclast, the higher-power language and the instant fellowship-of-drunks aspect of AA made him uncomfortable. Through his relapses and his recoveries, Steinberg developed his own relationship with AA and learned how to be a hot newspaperman without a shot glass on his desk. Steinberg's struggle to be honest with himself will touch a nerve with many readers. (June) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved All rights reserved.

Refreshingly unsentimental account of an addict's descent into hell and tentative journey back. Chicago Sun-Times columnist Steinberg (Hatless Jack: The President, the Fedora, and the History of American Style, 2004, etc.) was living his own version of the American dream: a big house in the Chicago suburbs, a devoted wife, two adorable kids--and a drinking habit that was growing steadily, Jack Daniels by tumbler of red wine by surreptitious swig of rue-flavored schnapps. For years, he didn't think his drinking was a problem. After all, he was a big-city daily newspaper columnist, a hard-drinking profession if ever there was one. But Steinberg's rosy illusions were destroyed for good after a day-long bender during which he slapped his wife and landed in jail. Publicity and a court-imposed 28-day stint in rehab followed. After that came a months-long roller coaster of Alcoholics Anonymous meetings followed by binges followed by remorse, followed by still more meetings. Steinberg doesn't gloss over the ugly realities of sobriety. Unmitigated by a shot of whiskey in his afternoon cocoa and a few glasses of wine on the commuter train home, suburban existence was crushingly boring. At monotonous meetings, he played board games and batted around balloons with people he wouldn't have talked to in the real world. The whole "higher power" notion, critical to the AA recovery process, was a tough sell for an atheist; Steinberg eventually decided it was his wife. "As much as I love to drink--as much as I loved to drink," he writes, "the bedrock truth is I love her more." Instead of romanticizing recovery, he does something much more difficult and effective: He acknowledges, even celebrates, the allure of the drinking life and sees his year of sobriety as both "a triumph" and "little more than a good start." Enlivened by humor and brisk prose, Steinberg's unflinching tale is far more compelling than most recovery memoirs. Copyright ©Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.