From Salon’s review of two books on meth:
Each era gets the drug it deserves — or seems to, after the fact, when viewed through the smeary lens of pop history. Hence Coleridge and the other 18th century Romantics with their laudanum visions; Rimbaud and Verlaine sipping absinthe in 19th century Paris; the acid-tinged 1960s; coke-amped 1980s and the 1990s’ sunken-eyed, vampiric heroin chic.
Methamphetamine, a drug that embodies a Platonic ideal of paranoia, perfectly suits out national mood, when sleep-deprived employees are afraid to get off the treadmill of work for fear they’ll fall even deeper into debt, and sexual titillation seems both omnipresent and joyless. The erotic vampires who populated pop culture in the late 1990s and early naughts have given way to zombies stumbling or wanking or fucking their way through the detritus of the early 21st century in recent films like “28 Days Later” and “Shaun of the Dead.”
I’m not sure I agree, but I’m having a hard time articulating why.