Toward the end of Iced, journalist and author Jerry Langton writes that the drug methamphetamine, aka “meth,” has divided the North American media into two camps: “Those who believe meth is bad, dangerous and rapidly spreading and those who believe meth is bad, dangerous and that the other guys are blowing it out of proportion.” If Langton had to choose sides, it’s safe to say he’d pick the former; the book’s subtitle gives it away.

Meth is a bad drug, no question. It’s addictive and linked to biker gangs and international cartels. Some people make meth in their homes and blow themselves up. For every pound of meth, the manufacturing process creates about six pounds of toxic waste. The surgeon general’s warning on a “point” of meth might read: “side effects include delusional parasitosis (the belief that insects are crawling in or just under one’s skin) and anhedonia (the inability to feel happiness).”

Langton goes into great detail as to why these and other misfortunes befall the poor brain of the meth addict, and what exactly happens when a user uses. Likewise, there is more information about the distribution, regulation, and policing of the drug than casual readers are likely to crave.

Langton is a non-user – to his credit, though perhaps to the detriment of the book – so there’s no voyeuristic story of descent and redemption here, but (again, much to his credit) there isn’t much War on Drugs-style hyperbole either. Langton strikes a nice balance, perhaps erring on the side of respectability.

Fortunately, there’s enough about meth in all of its depraved, psychotic, exploding glory to get the point across. Meth is the Next Worst Thing. We’ve all, media and consumers alike, been conditioned in this exercise of negative trendspotting: Hells Angels are on top this year, break-and-enters are hot in the neighborhood, cocaine is so last season. As bad as it is, the meth epidemic will probably look pretty good compared to whatever horrible thing comes next.