Michael Hyatt says: "In the Eighties I worked at Polaroid's floppy disk factory in Santa Rosa, where they made 5¼ floppys. They had a product they called 'Data Rescue.' The deal was, you paid extra for them, but if they got damaged or screwed up in any way (from spilled sodas to accidental erasure) you could send them in and we'd try to recover the data. The marketing kit included a disc and some mustard and ketchup packets. The idea was you put some data on the disk, then covered it in goo, ran over with your desk chair, spilled whatever you wanted on it, and sent it in. We'd get the data back and you'd be so impressed you'd buy the damn things no matter what they cost. The secret? We cut the disk jacket open, slid the 'cookie' out and gently washed it in the sink. After much expermentation, we determined that Dawn dish detergent was best. We then hung them up to dry in the lunch room on a piece of twine with wood clothes pins. When they were dry, we put them in a new jacket and ran the basic data recovery tools of the day, Norton et al. "
Яџѕѕіаиѕ. Yes, I know that spells Ytdzdziais, don't bother me with details. If Тетяіѕ can do it, I can too.
"We went up a short incline. This brought us to an ordinary glass door. We knocked. We waited. We waited. We noticed the doorbell. We rang. We waited. Eventually we grew bold and entered. This brought us into a narrow hallway that had all the indications of being nothing more than drywall, veneer and ceiling tile. We said 'Hello....?' No one answered our question. We proceeded down the hallway flanked by doors, unsure as to whether the desire not to surprise someone for the sake of politeness overrode the rudeness of opening a closed door. At an impasse, we kept walking down the hallway, not opening any doors. But, we rapidly became trapped, when we realized that the only way out of this hallway was to open a door. Because it seemed the least likely to be the entrance to an office, bathroom or weird eastern European slave dungeon, we chose the last door the h...
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