Alcoholism as the subject of yet another appalled memoir--this one the doing of a former Chicago Sun-Times columnist and author of cutesy books about TV and his eight kids. The trouble is, Molloy doesn't seem certain whether he wants to narrate his fall from grace (he rates himself an ""instant alcoholic"" as of his first beer at 19) or to proffer sobering statistics and typical drunk stories. The resulting harum-scarum inventory of facts and failings packs little emotional appeal, though it does manage to mirror the chaotic state of the alcoholic perception. Molloy went through AA meetings and ""rehab"" centers, halfway houses, etc., for years before he made the all-important, all-embracing admission: that he was an alcoholic (in some ways he didn't fit the classic pattern); that he couldn't handle his own life; and that he needed help from a ""higher power."" He lost his wife, partially alienated his kids, limited his professional success, and finally found himself doing battle with a rabbit whose hutch was hiding his ""hootch."" Along the way, he encountered enough genuine alcoholics to discourse on priests and nuns in thrall to the bottle, favorite (and usually disgusting) hiding places, the effects of drinking on family life. An honest enough assessment, but too confused to shed much light on either the issues or one man's agony.