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It's good to visit San Francisco now that the bubble's burst. I head back to my old local, Cafe Abir, where it used to be you couldn't knock over a latte without drenching some snotty dot-commer's Sony Vaio. The decorations are the same: unconvincing Moorish murals, world music from a planet you'd never want to visit and slender type-A's queuing smoothly for their $4 coffees. There's a faint fragrance of faded incense and fond memories of squandered trust funds. However, it seems a little less busy than I remember.

I wait patiently for the stunningly relaxed ambient musician behind the bar to gather his vibes and serve me, so I can't help noticing a trio of twenty something urban hipsters staring into their drained paper cups. I wonder how they'll cope with the Bush years.

"When do you start?" says one enthusiastically, flicking his magnificent dreadlocks.

"Monday. On, like, reception, but I'll be shadowing a top stylist in mebbe three months," says the second, running a tanned hand over his blond crew cut.

"That's cool. Hair is cool." The third nods his shaved head in agreement. "You lucked out, man. How'd you get the gig?"

"Karma. I must have eaten brunch at that place a hundred times," says the blond guy.

The bald guy looks down and sighs.

"I hate unemployment, but I'm OK for another month. I'm gonna wait. Somebody's gonna want what I got. I can feel it."

Dreads and blond turn to him in horror.

"Hold? Another month? In San Francisco? What are you thinking?"

He doesn't return their gaze and mutters something inaudible.

"Did you sell your G4? Don't tell me you sold your G4," says blond.

Bald turns red. "I don't need a $5,000 computer right now."

"How much did you get for it?" says dreads.

"One K," admits bald, sadly.

"So you're good for another month. But what next? Your Strat? Your board? Your 10-speed? Are you crazy? How do you expect to survive in this city without e-mail?" says blond.

The blood drains from bald's face, but he shrugs his shoulders and says, "I'm downshifting. I'll -- I'll write letters... ."

"C'maaan, you can't go back to the Stone Age just because the Nasdaq tanked. So we lost our jobs. So what. Something cool is, like, bound to turn up. What about biotech? Didn't you read that book -- what was it -- the uh, the something gene?" says dreads.

"The selfish gene," admits bald.

Blond leans in, suddenly curious.

"I always thought it was 'the shellfish gene.' Have you tried the oysters at Cafe Opera?"

"OK, so you've got experience in online marketing and you're practically, like, an expert in the history of DNA. I'm telling you, you need a computer, a McJob to tide you over, and then everything will be OK. Don't panic," says dreads.

"Maybe you're right. What's your move?" Dreads sits up proudly. "Earthquakes. I'm betting on the Big One. I've sat through two already, and I've seen the movie. Plate tectonics is where it's at. I figure I can make big bank working for a company developing new technologies to enable low seismic retrofitting of massive public buildings."

"Don't you have to have, like, an engineering degree?" says bald, cautiously.

"Hell, I've managed Web engineers before. Besides, I've written the business plan. I just need some dumb money and it'll be cool."

"And how about you?"

Blond takes a final swig of his empty coffee cup and puts it down with an air of decision.

"Organic grocery deliveries. Sort of Rainbow groceries meets Kozmo -- maybe I should call it Rainmo? I'll leverage my time at the diner to get retail experience and then pitch Webvan when they're down to their last mil and desperate for a new angle. It'll be huge. Either that, or offline porn. God knows I've done the Web research ... ."

I'm sure they'll all be fine,

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