I started subscribing to various email listservs devoted to indie music. Email was no longer a dumb, bureaucratic encumbrance. It was now a reason to rush home after class. I studied the recommendations and references of the listserv messages more closely than my course readings. Email was like discovering a new genre for writing, one with its own, unique registers of wit and intimacy. Someone on the listserv lived on Fulton Street, just around the corner from me. He invited me over one night and played me some records by his friends. It felt cool to know someone who knew people in a band. But I felt more at ease emailing with him. I wrote long, soul-baring messages to other list members from Chicago or Halifax or Madrid whom I never imagined meeting.