// μ = m // dayvan cowboy // music is math

This is a Dayvan Cowboy:

This guy jumped from a 100K feet (33.1 km!) height. R-r-r-ec-cord breaker. They stopped the whole program after a while because it’s almost suicidal. But I can’t begin to imagine how good such a stoke must feel. Makes me want to go kamikaze on interstate routes. Kamikaze as in “no back-up plan, skating 300km from Rio to São Paulo not knowing how long it’ll take, where I’ll find fresh food or cold water or shelter” At my current (average) speed for long-ish horizontal routes, it should take 9 9 hours of skating not accounting for stops. That would be a Dayvan cowboy.

The ones searching for “women cowboy pictures” should search Youtube for Jessica Simpson’s cover of “These boots are made for walking”. Not only she prances around in a sexed-up version of a cowboy outfit, she washes a car wearing only a pink bikini by the end, for reasons I can’t fathom.

Not that I have anything against sexy women washing cars in pink bikinis. That bitch has a nice body, worth gaping at, if you manage to suspend your critical judgement for the sake of titillation. Often the dirty fun is worth the intellectual debasement, really.

Somehow, though, having a real sexy woman to play with devalues the whole thing — the sexed-up cowgirl thing and the pink bikini. I mean, it’s pink. Where do they get these ideas?

These are the (more interesting) results of a Flickr search for “Dayvan Cowboy”). Titles after images.

Don’t.

Seriously. It’s my own “agenda” to defend, my own mountain Everest to climb, my own life pursuit. It’s also a nondescript umbrella term whose meaning I’ve been and probably will be shaping implicitly in my writing.

Sure, you could hypothetically try to infer a cloudy idea from what I’ve been saying and try to follow it. But hey, trying to shape oneself into a dayvan cowboy is not something a dayvan cowboy would do. It’s not just the chutzpah, the deleuze-ish ultraphenomenology of crashing down the plane of imannence, or even the zen idea implied by the very idea of “don’t try, just do” implied in this paragraph.

It’s not like there’s a crowd to worship the idea either. But I worry about myself, about being blinded by the idea that I have some big secret to share. Something like Being alive: a primer needs to be fueled by a sense of self-assurance that is both positive in that a dayvan cowboy should just dive into things as if they’re liquid — they always are — and negative in that begins to convey a sense of closure. As if I had it solved, or at least knew I was heading into the solution.

I registered this domain like, what, 2 months ago? and my PageRank with Google implies an exposure I don’t see reflected in my viewer stats. So I started comparing it along blog blog journal s. As a measure of comparison, Wikipedia and the New York Times are a 9. The scale maxes out at 10. Jason Kottke and Nick Carr are a 7, Waiter Rant is a 6 and The Last Psychiatrist is a 5; I’m a 4 and annoyingly, Violent Acres is below me at 3. PageRank is bunk, dude. V. from Violent Acres has been at it for years, consistently kicks ass and is guaranteed to have controversy in her comments. She’s in a way someone I admire, as she’s been living out her life pursuit in her very own way — she’s far, far from being a dayvan cowgirl — and what’s more, consistently avoided letting herself indulge in her own identity. This is the girl who went (voluntarily and with a plan) homeless to pay off debt.