Exhibit A

I'm a completist. Nothing gets me off as much as collecting things. As a boy it was comic books and action figures. My toys were never opened and stored in the original shipping boxes to ensure they were kept in mint condition. I had three friends in my address book, but the number of every retail, toy, and comic book store within thirty miles on speed dial. I was an old man then; I'm an old man now. Fast forward half a decade and I'm collecting records. Scouring used bins for a copy of Moss Icon's "It Disappears" LP for the two songs on the B-side not available on their discography CD. The live versions of "I'm Back Sleeping Or Fucking Or Something" and "It Disappears" are perfect. Full stop. Perfect.

I'll admit it right now. I like to admire my collections. They tickle me. When I look at my record collections, I feel a sense of accomplishment. Fifteen years of assembling a carefully chosen army. A balance of genres: night driving music, gym anthems, mid afternoon headphone listens. I don't understand people who sell their records and CDs. Sure you could put it on an iPod, just like you could turn Picasso's "Guernica" into a postage stamp. Convenience isn't everything. What if your best friend told you they were marrying someone because it was convenient? Let's be overwhelmed. If it's worth listening to, it's worth hearing everything.

Recently, however, I've moved from things to data. I've become an informational pack rat. I want to store, process, and crunch numbers. The prospect of making a spreadsheet with charts and graphs turns my crank. Statistics are an objective journal. They declare: This is where you are and where you have been. I can tell you that my car's MPG has markedly increased after switching from Shell to Chevron premium gas. That my Omega keeps time best when left overnight on its side with the crown facing up. I can tell you how many reps I did with Zak on legs and abs day on March 10, 2009. I'm in the black in my lifetime of poker.

My memory is shit. I remember what I want (i.e. what is psychologically agreeable). Numbers, however, are immune to my insecurities and fear. They admit you've put on weight when your girlfriend says you look fine. Categorizing and filing is a way to tame the world. It takes the wild, unpredictable chaos and puts it neatly into a data cell. An objective point of entry and understanding in an otherwise absurd world. The silliness of this quixotic project is clear to me. I can't help but try to sort out the unmasterable universe, if only through an Excel spreadsheet.

Exhibit A: New page added, Showography.

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