In a storage room in the back of a bar in Hermosa Beach, Dustin Mikulski is stretching his hamstrings. He's not a professional dancer—or, that is, he's not anymore. And technically, Breakers hasn't hired him to dance; the terms of his personal appearance agreement call for him to host: hype the crowd, throw out t-shirts, sign autographs for fans. But this isn't his first gig. Dustin knows that, eventually, he's going to have to perform the routine that made him famous.
Loosened up, Dustin takes advantage of the lull by checking his email. He was scheduled to lead a seminar the next morning in his Econ class at UC [...]
One day in the early 2000s, I received an unsolicited email from someone I didn't know; if you had an email address then, you probably did too, daily, and most of the time ignored such notes. But there's spam, and then there's spam. It began: "If you are a time traveler or alien disguised as human and or have the technology to travel physically through time I need your help!"