In the dark of night, a man named Armand appeared at my front door in downtown Los Angeles to fetch the precious goods: eight floppy diskettes, bound by a rubber band, exact contents unknown. I’d bought my own USB-enabled reader and discovered it wouldn’t translate these antiquated bits into readable ones. I had no idea what was on them, but I was dying to find out.

For a modest fee, this Armand fellow was happy to help. He even happened to be dropping off his daughter at a burlesque show (?) near my place and could save me the trip to his—I’d trust the disks to this total stranger who offered data transfer services, but no way was I trusting these to the mail.