on self-loathing, pearl jam
“At college in Connecticut, I had my first woeful exposure to connoisseur-grade ganja, hydroponic sinsemilla a friend brought up from Miami. I knew I was high when I smoked that stuff, because suddenly the Pearl Jam CD somebody had put on would seem not just derivative and mediocre but proof that we were stupid, mediocre people for listening to it. Then I’d leap to the revelation that I hated my friends and that they hated me, at which point I would usually projectile-vomit into the wastebasket while one of my hateful pals held back the tresses of my Eddie Vedder hairdo. […] Every now and again I give it another shot, taking homeopathic doses late at night in the solitude of my own home. But in the morning, I’ll find unpleasant notes (“400 crunches now, you pudgy fuck!”) taped to the mirror where I spent an hour the previous evening appalling myself with the sight of my nude body. Generally I leave the stuff alone.”
— From Wells Tower’s excellent essay about Amsterdam & the future of legalized marijuana, “My Cushy New Job” (GQ, read here)
