In New York, in advertising, alcoholism is not a sin when it's manifested in sarcasm, verbal abuse, flakiness or paranoia. In New York, in advertising, you have a drinking problem the morning the muted odor of last night's booze wafts from your pores through a gallon of cologne while the client - a conservative suit inhabited by a man of porterhouse steaks, missionary sex and tax-friendly charitible donations - stands four feet away, narrowing his eyes at you, the creative lush, about to drown the company new line's of crap in bottles of expensive, fashionable liquid stashed in nine convenient locations around the apartment.
It's nowhere near bottom, and though that eventually becomes part of the problem, that's what passes for an addict's epiphany in Augusten Burrough's DRY, his sharpest, saddest, most focused book, an honest retelling of his wobbly recovery from alcoholism and his eventual, total relapse (telegraphed through the entire narrative) that's more intense and devastating than his original tour of addictive duty. When Burroughs finally gets to the bottom of his self-destructive impulses - his attraction to similarly damaged souls and his almost intrinsic narcissism - he completes a surprisingly effective, witty testimonial for day-to-day recovery.
Sent to rehab when his agency thinks his addiction finally overwhelmed his creative abilities, Burroughs zips through his time at the clinic without tremendous discomfort before returning to an apartment pocked with empty bottles, trash and rotted food. He steps right back into the ad world while a best friend/lover, Pighead, struggles with AIDS and a friend from the clinic, also in recovery, moves in. Burroughs makes the AA rounds and meets his weakness: A handsome, trust-fund-rich crack addict, one part earnest, one part poisonous partyboy.
Their relationship deepens, while Burroughs' friendship with Pighead breaks apart, and one of Burroughs' ad bosses inexplicably tries to set him up. This is not the ideal life for a recovering alcoholic, a fact that becomes more clear as Pighead's condition gets worse. Burroughs' book not only shows the after-effects of alcoholism, but how a given lifestyle can play right into the hands of the bottle. I was reminded more than once of the writings of Jackson McCrae, think his KATZENJAMMER with its themes of sex, drugs, selling out, and New York madness. But DRY is different—more obtuse, more frigid. You simply HAVE to read this book to get what I’m talking about. And you should—read it, that is. Highly recommended.