NEW YORK -- From 1996 to 1999, everyone who was anyone knew that the Internet was the place to be. People quit perfectly good jobs at profitable corporations because, as everyone knew, profitability was Old School and Old School was bad. They went to work at places like Henfruit.com and ReplaceThoseMissingExtraSocks.com, not despite the fact that they never made money but because of that fact. The young and the childless gathered in cafes and bars that served overpriced beverages nobody liked in order to compare stock options and body alterations.

"I'm worth $2.7 million on paper," someone would say, and people would believe him.

"Of course," someone would continue, "I'm holding. I'd hate to sell now and lose money when the market goes up. Besides, I love my company. We have a foosball table and a dog in the office, and we all work 23 hours a day because we believe that the Web is The Future." And people would believe him.

As the first half of the first year of the new millennium draws to a close, The Future is over. The foosball machines have been auctioned off; the office dogs have been put to sleep. Once-satisfied customers wander gritty streets in search of the offline henfruit of their dreams.

But what of the C-Plus-Plus programmers, with their heads filled with code and covered with muttonchops and their pockets jammed with maxed-out credit cards? What of them?

Oddly, they are happy.

Now, you're nobody if you're somebody, for being somebody means having been canned. It's hip to be unemployed, but it doesn't stop there: Now you have to have no prospects at all.

"I think I'm going to be laid off," Nancy ventures at a red-hot pink-slip party as far away from Manhattan's Silicon Alley as you can get without being inconvenient.

"Really? That's great!" Debbie, wearing a red mini with (duh) a pink slip sticking out, glows. As everyone knows, Debbie has been collecting unemployment for months. Debbie didn't even get severance. "When will you find out?"

"Monday," Nancy grins. "I've already bought tickets for Cancun for Tuesday!" High-fives circulate. It's a heady atmosphere, one rendered giddier by cheap beer and watered-down margaritas. A 30-day eviction notice hangs on the door.

Nancy's boyfriend hangs back with his posse, holding court with his buddies, all of whom got fired when their magazine fiscally imploded a year earlier. Not only have none of them found new jobs, none of them have bothered to look for one. "Nancy's getting fired Monday," Robert shares. Here one of Robert's former colleagues congratulates him. "We knew you picked a cool chick."

These are the people who drove the Great Internet Whatever, and they're burned out; 23-hour days and foosball elbow took their inevitable toll, and they've been dying for a break. Until Bush got in and killed the economy, it was hard to turn down $80,000-a-year jobs -- especially when the offers were coming in from your friends. "I've been working since I was 21," confesses Nancy, 24. "Now it's time to file for unemployment, run up my credit cards and backpack through Bali."

Not everyone has been fired, or even works for a failing employer. Kevin, for instance, earns $90,000 working as a second-year bankruptcy lawyer. "No one talks to me," Kevin mourns bitterly, slouched between the cushions of a $7,000 sofa. "To be hip you have to have been fired, because if you weren't fired you were never part of the Web thing, which means you were risk-averse and/or boring. My girlfriend dumped me for some Chapter 11 Web porn guy."

Afterward, I take the subway because I can't afford a cab. When I get home, there's an answering machine message from my accountant telling me that my receivables are way down, that my retirement account is toast, and to call him back but not collect like last time.

I smile. I'm on my way.