Every day is yours to win

I think I might’ve inadvertently dumped a half spoonful of salt in my coffee this morning, making for an inauspicious but by no means insurmountable start to a day I will otherwise grab by the balls and make my bitch.

This is how I see it happening, anyway – which would mean I don’t bungle my interview with the former prez of the ABA, I crank out a 2000-word e-zine by 6, and I drive more traffic to this well-researched, though generally narrowly defined piece of semi-genius I wrote about  the decryption of Osama bin Laden’s confiscated digital cache.

Uphill climb, no doubt. But I’m immediately reminded of R.E.M.’s expository piece of triumphant fluff “Every Day Is Yours To Win“… a by-and-large terrible excuse for a rallying cry that points me instead to any number of ass-kicking, name-taking Pearl Jam rave-ups (the best of which is, inarguably, “Given To Fly“).

If I was, say, LeBron James – who, btw, still baffles me every time he appears in insurance commercials rocking an oversized Victorian-era sweater on a 90-degree day – I’d probably hit snooze on the alarm clock, pat myself on the back, and trust the AM’s heavy-lifting to my more efficient co-workers (I’d then pound an apple, run over to the far corner of the kitchen and jack the core from 23-feet, in lieu of walking straight to the trash can).

This is not happening. Not today. And since I see no way to transition gracefully from alt-rock to shots at LJ to blog’s end, I’m cutting my losses, cutting my teeth, popping two sticks of Trident, downing these last bitter sips of milk-in-sodium and leaving you, the subject of my self-determined Tony Robbinisms, with this:

A wise man once said, “Do or do not do, there is no try.” And if Yoda (and Lindsey Buckingham) are wrong… I’m going back to bed.