It’s beginning to feel like 2001 again just after the DotCom Bubble went splat. The Big Boys are sucking in their guts and going into spore mode. They’re going to shed all that extra weight and burrow into the mud until the Recession is over. Then they’ll spring back to life.
So now Yahoo and Google are whacking away, cutting projects, releasing a reverse tide of talent. The unemployed talent moves onto the streets wondering what hit them. It’s not the Night of The Living Dead yet, but now and then one will knock on our door. They’re looking for something to do with all the spare time they’ve got on their hands. Why not join a start-up?
As for us, we can use them. And we can hire them because we’re flush with equity. It doesn’t cost a cent to take these talented wanderers under our wing.
Things are looking up for us as we approach going public.
The first thing I noticed on my walk from the Caltrain station was the unusual number of Maseratis and Ferraris parked in front of the coffee shops on University Avenue. Usually I see those things on the cover of the car mags like Road and Track or Car and Driver. You know, the magazines you read in the waiting room before you get your teeth cleaned.
In front of the Apple store some socialist-anarchists are picketing pointlessly, holding signs that say “Apple hires rats.” Something about labor practices at the world’s biggest online entertainment vendor. Behind the pickets there’s a line of iPhone zombies that stretches around the corner down to the Thai restaurant in the middle of the block. Every day since the Gods’ Own Phone came out they’ve been lined up, waiting to meet God. To bad they’ll have to buy their pretty phone from a rat.
I’m standing in Peets waiting for the rude chick behind the counter to take my order. Usually I like Peets, but this particular store seems to have fallen off the radar. It looks more like a Kwiki-mart than a high-toned coffee boutique. The only thing missing Lotto machine by the cash register. While I’m thinking about this, Johnny Big Balls pulls up in front the the store straddling a pimped-out BMW motorcycle with saddle backs and tassels on the handlebar. He’s costumed head to toe in shiny black leather, like the gimp in Pulp Fiction. When he pulls off his helmet we see a 60-year vet of the Valley Wars. He looks old, beaten and empty, with bleary, weary eyes.
My friend who knows everything about everyone in the Valley nudges me. “That guy’s a tool. He was the developer behind w*****.com. When the VCs came in, they ripped his balls off and shoved them up his ass. He was so desparate for funding that sold his fucking balls to the Suits. And the fucked him good. Now he just rides around that piece of shit motorcycle all day dreaming about how the Good Old Days when he used to have balls. That’ll never happen to me.”
The rude bitch finally gets to us, and I say, “Pardon me, miss. Did you know that the toilet isn’t bolted to the floor. When I pushed the handle to flush, it almost fell over.”
“Tell me about it,” she said. “You need room for cream?”
Yes. I always need room for my cream.
