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'Billions' I love watching Billions while blasted out of my skull. It's set in a world I'm wholly unfamiliar with—one in which loaded, ruthlessly self-absorbed, power-hungry assholes take great pleasure in fucking one another over. The show stars Damian Lewis and Paul Giamatti, who play a shady billionaire Wall Street investor and a shady US attorney who likes to get peed on, respectively. Every time these men open their mouths, a very important life lesson comes spilling out. Even something as simple as ordering off a lunchtime menu is designed to heap wisdom on anyone blessed enough to be within earshot.

Dramatic —and funny (especially Lewis's New York accent). — Brian McManus, Special Projects Editor, VICE.com. 'Antiques Roadshow' The PBS staple Antiques Roadshow adds drama to the already dramatic process of antique appraisal and is perfect for when you're stoned. The show's structure is simple: An ordinary American presents an antique to an expert, who explains the history of the item and tells him or her how much it's worth. The show might be boring to anybody who doesn't have interest in historical artifacts, but to me, the past is full of infinite mystery and wonder, which makes the Roadshow a great high viewing choice, perfect to watch as you drift off to sleep. But if you're feeling wired, there are also many stoner Roadshow games to be played, like guessing the value of each historical gem (take a hit if you're right/take two hits if you're wrong) and speculating on the complex inner lives of the antique owner and the appraiser. Antiques Roadshow is a blank slate for the stoner mind, a way for you to lazily exercise your imagination and see some truly beautiful heirlooms, trash, and everything in between. 'Ulysses' I don't really smoke weed anymore, but when I did, you know what was fucking great ?

Everyone thinks of it as a difficult novel—and it is—but when you're high, you can let all the early-20th-century Dublin references wash over you while focusing on the joy and strangeness of the language. Treat it like you would an art film or a psychedelic painting—more an experience than an exercise in logic. Speaking of which, you can't properly read Ulysses (high or otherwise) while listening to music or interacting with anyone, so don't try it, or you'll get distracted and the whole thing will be a waste. Sorry if this makes me sound like a pretentious asshole. When I smoke weed and go on YouTube, I'm trying to time travel. Yeah, you can just watch old movies if you want to see the past, but footage from people's old home movie cameras makes the experience more spontaneous and intimate. My favorite kind of old footage is of amusement parks that no longer exist. Lots and lots of old, mom-and-pop parks—like Angela Park in Pennsylvania—have been bulldozed over the years, and the footage of what once was is so shaky and ugly that it almost tricks your brain into thinking you're looking at the present, instead of the ghostly remnants of a good time someone had before you were even born, in a place you'll never be able to actually go. If you only watch footage of one defunct amusement park, make it Pacific Ocean Park, an expensive, ocean-themed park just outside of LA that was the Pepsi to Disneyland's coke until it closed in 1967. At some point, I'm sure people actually went to that place on weed. When I'm high, I stay up watching TV—not even TV but YouTube videos. I watch a string of three-to-30 minute clips so disassociated from one another that, by the time I go to sleep, I don't even remember how I got from parody movie trailers to Christopher Hitchens debating the existence of God. — Alex Norcia, Copy Editor, VICE magazine and VICE.com. The Instagram explore tab is the digital equivalent of throwing a dart at a map on the wall. It takes you places: You can peer at a gravity-defying infinity pool at a luxury hotel in Indonesia, then you can go to Rome and salivate at the sight of an overstuffed cone of gelato. One minute you're watching an ASMR video of a person sticking his finger in goo, and the next you're looking at the selfie of a guy who plays Gaston at Disney World. A picture of a woman with boulder-sized breasts is immediately followed up by the handiwork of a man who does makeup for the mannequins in New York City department stores. And I've lost what probably amounts to several days of my life high on my couch looking at it. If you're white or hang out with white people, and you've ever gotten high, chances are that jam bands have been involved. This is how it was for me growing up in upstate South Carolina in the 2000s. Because driving was the only way to get anywhere, a lot of my time was spent in cars. And because this was the ultra-conservative South, a lot of these cars were trucks. We'd break out the tunes and stare out the windows.

I remember maybe three specific times, bouncing along those country roads—cornfields, treetops, winding roads with their tiny houses and barking dogs and cluttered yards. The one time I will tell you about took place one summer afternoon in a truck. I was stoned out of my mind, an incoming senior in high school going through the kind of fuck-up period that will either awaken or destroy you. That day, I closed my eyes and literally saw music, notes on a scrolling sheet accompanying Dickey Betts and the keyboard players' harmonizing "Jessica" lines. (Next came a row of dancing Grateful Dead bears like we'd all had plastered on our bumpers back then, but that's beside the point.) Despite my inability to actually read music—my guitar playing was self-taught—I felt and saw and knew music like I'd never felt before, and probably never since.

I was there, but I was also somewhere else I only recognize now, years later, away from gravity bongs and jam bands and those stunning, crushing roads. And then, when we got to where we were trying to go, I leaned out the door and puked. Ice breakers were the highlight of every quarter in college. For the uninformed, an ice breaker is what we called a dance party thrown by black fraternities during the first few weeks of class.

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