white lines

Inside this drop's zine, you'll find a history of cocaine that starts with Freud writing fan mail and ends, somehow, with good furniture and better wine. A close reading of an anti-drug anthem designed to feel exactly like the thing it's arguing against. The tan line as involuntary autobiography. The white lie as social contract. And the great white — Melville's, Spielberg's, manifest destiny's — as the American archetype for the thing beneath a placid surface that turns out to be enormous and completely indifferent to you.

Included in this issue, our art object is a faux mirrored credit card aptly named — American Excess — that does exactly what it says, and links to a White Lines-themed playlist built for the road, the night, and the long way home. It’s a membership card dedicated to doing *more*, which is either a joke or a philosophy depending on how seriously you take your excess. Scan it, follow it, don't think about it too hard and throw it in your bag before hitting the road. Like all good mirrors, it isn't giving advice. It's just showing you what's already there.