My drive to work was crazy this morning. Might have been the most intense 3.4 miles in recent memories. It started off great at my Starbucks. As it is every morning, my favorite four baristas were there and by the time I got to the front on the line with my exact change, my venti black drip was ready for me, no order needed. A side note, none of them know my name. They all know who I am, everyone in the Starbucks knows my drink, but because it is not something that they write my name on the side of the cup for, no one actually knows my name. It is greatness. I pull out on to Northwest Highway and am making my way down the road to the office. Within a one minute time period, I receive two emails. Both are from gentlemen that I met in March. Both were the first responses to the email that I sent them. Both talked about how busy they had been and they were just getting around to replying to their emails. Both were so full of it that I am baffled by the fact that they even put themselves out there and responded. So busy that it took you six weeks to write a two sentence reply that effectively said, "It was great to meet you as well. I am looking forward to staying in touch, I think there is a lot of things we can do to help one another." These weren't potential clients, they were potential partners, and frankly, I can probably help them more than they can help me. They missed their chance at my network about five weeks ago. I am contemplating this as I pull up to the next light at Hillcrest. A Dodge Durango is sitting at the light and makes a right turn in front of me. As it does, a telephone pole falls over and lands on the passenger side of the hood of the car and stops it dead in its tracks. Sparks fly as the huge globe light shatters on the road and the front right wheel of the Durango is crushed by the force of the blow. It was the craziest thing I ever saw in person. With all of the wires now strewn about in the road and on the sidewalk, the traffic light goes out and once again the stupidity of the American driver is on full display. No one knows what to do with a flashing red light. Five minutes later, as I make it through the light I see the driver of the Durango sitting on the curb, clearly shaken up but physically okay, calling 911 as the construction workers bring him a cup of coffee. The Durango itself was totaled and not going anywhere but the scrap yard. As I am just about to turn into my office complex a few uneventual miles later, the fire truck from the local station pulls out onto my street. I am assuming that it is head back to the Durango crash. As the huge fire truck makes its way out of the station with all of it lights flashing and horns blowing, three stupid drivers try and make it across the intersection in their foreign luxury cars. By the time I finally get to the office, I am so revved up that the only option is to sit down, take a sip from my source of zen, my venti drip, refocus my energy, and write a blog.