It was his dream life. He got paid to publish his thoughts on music, film, celebrities, and whatever else he wanted. Strangers recognized him in public. He married a reader and won some awards. He judged talent competitions, was on the radio, and signed a deal with a literary agent. He knew rock stars - two of whom asked him to write their books. His face was on advertisements trying to get people to read his fairly large newspaper. He was also the guy walking out of the liquor store with a bulging, swishing paper sack at 3:30 p.m. Which, for him, wasn't unusual at all. His life was like the turkey scene in "Christmas Vacation." It looked perfectly cooked, golden brown, juicy, and quite wonderful from the outside. But one serious poke revealed a heaving, steamy vacuum of inedible disgust. His name was Tony. And he was a liar ... and an alcoholic. He drank away his family, career, friends, and nearly his life. He escaped rehab. He spent his 50th birthday in the hospital with more alcohol in his blood than what killed Led Zeppelin's John Bonham. Hallucinations, hospitals and homelessness couldn't even stop his insanity. Did anything? Read on ...