I'm back online after several days with a down mail server. It's amazing how you get used to simple things like reading email. When I was at the Greenpeace retreat, I didn't read email for almost a week. I was fine with that, because I knew I could read it if I really wanted to. But three days of knowing I my favorite co-located server is down, and I'm climbing the walls.

Thanks, Marc, for restoring my sanity.

As you might have guessed, I'm back in San Francisco. I've got some stories to tell.

The last night at the India House Too hostel in Washington, D.C. was a real blast. At this point I had become fast friends with three troublemakers: Ricardo, Jim, and Tom. Monday night had descended into another all-hours discussion of politics and sex, and the puritan bastards on Capitol Hill had screwed us yet again.

Liquor stores in D.C. close at 9pm, by law. Unfortunately, the only liquor store around is just this side of the Maryland border. By 11pm we'd consumed all the alcohol in the house and were, by our own judgement, not nearly drunk enough.

Ricardo was still sober at the point, so we piled into Tom's car and made a mad dash for the state line.

Jim: "What kind of beer do you guys want?"
Tyler: "I don't know about you guys, but I'm kind of in the mood for gin and tonics."
Tom: "Oh yeah, I could really go for some mixed drinks!"
Jim: "I used to tend bar. Count me in!"

You should recognize the danger here. How many college-age guys do you know who will take mixed drinks over beer? I should have really taken the hint when they said they shared my taste for sour apple martinis.

1.75 liters of Tanqueray, 3 liters of tonic, two cases of beer, a bag of ice, and one "21 limes for a dollar!" special later, we were good to go.

Jim makes some serious GT's. Like, damn. I believe I had five. I'm not really sure. But I sure slept well.

Bonus: I learned how to cut limes properly, with the little wedge hanging off the glass and everything!

I thought the Greenpeace retreat would mean a few nice quiet days in the woods. Wrong. These people rival the SLO punks for sheer debauchery, and they do it under the guise of actual work.

We spent the days in discussion sessions, hearing presentations from various departments and discussing where the organization is heading. These people have seriously strong opinions, and little compunction about telling you how wrong you are.

Greenpeace works hard, but plays harder. There was no pretense of propriety; every "meeting" held after 5 o'clock was moved to the bar, and there were a good number of bloodshot eyes and broad grins by dinner time. The chartered company bus to the retreat featured a bottle of mescal, complete with worm.

More importantly, no one cared. That is, everyone was responsible, but no one cared who was intoxicated so long as the job got done. There is a very important lesson here, and I'm not just talking about getting drunk.

The highlight of the retreat for me was the team-building exercise. The retreat site, a resort in the hills of West Virginia, is a gorgeous bit of country. Beautiful woods, great weather, and a nice little lake.

Our goal for the exercise was to split into four teams, with each team competing to build a raft and ferry our team members across the lake. We recovered all our building materials fairly quickly, and went to work on the raft. We used my design - I'm very proud of this - a double-outrigger system using a ladder, two pallets, and five inner tubes.

Meanwhile, the more inventive members of white team were plotting a creative interpretation of the rules. This split our team along two lines: those who wanted to just go play in the lake, and those who wanted to win, and stay dry while doing so.

And so, we launched our raft behind the other teams, boarded the first half of our members (we would have to make two trips), and started paddling. Behind us, six mutinous team members announced they wouldn't cross the lake, and walked off. Bloodly land-lubbers!

Knowing it was over for our team, our focus shifted; instead of working together to solve a problem, we would attempt to take everyone else with us. Disembarking most of our passengers on the far side of the lake, a fellow loyalist and I turned pirate.

We successfully blockaded the first and second place rafts for several minutes. Finally, the mild-mannered office manager from the San Francisco office jumped overboard and physically pushed our vessel into deeper water while his comrades rowed past. Bastards!

The race lost, we harassed the other boats and longshoremen for half an hour, then called it quits. My kingdom for a bag of water balloons!

Alas, the mightly pirate vessel Renegade suffered critical displacement failure and was hauled ashore while her inner tubes deflated. She was a good ship, and I'll remember her fondly.

The deconstruction of that exercise was humbling, to say the least. But it sure beat the hell out of a trust-fall. Next time, I want paint ball.

Back in the office, I'm kind of enjoying a certain amount of counter-culture activity. How do you do counter-culture activism at Greenpeace? Make them into Republicans, I guess.

For one, I'm training them on how to use toy guns. They're critically undertrained in proper office Nerf warfare, and it's no fun shooting fish in a barrel. By the end of next week, I'll have 'em diving over couches at the first sign of imminent foam-rubber justice. Or at least not holding the guns like a damn girl.