Dick Pountain/Idealog 261/04 April 2016 13:15
It's a cliche, but none the less true, that many IT problems are caused by the unholy rapidity of change in our industry. However I've just had an irritating lesson in the opposite case, where sometimes things that remain the same for too long can get you into trouble. It all started last week when a friend in Spain emailed to say that mail to my main dick@dickpountain.co.uk address was bouncing, and it soon turned into a tragicomedy.
A test mail showed mail was indeed broken, and that my website at www.dickpountain.co.uk had become inaccessible too. Something nasty had happened to my domain. This wasn't without precedent as I wrote here exactly a year ago in PC Pro 249 about the way Google's tightened security had busted my site. The first step, equivalent in plumbing terms to lifting the manhole lid, is to log into the website of my domain registrar Freeparking, which I duly attempted only to be rudely rebuffed. Their website has been completely redesigned and my password no longer worked - message says it was too weak so they'd automatically replaced it with a stronger one. A stronger one that unfortunately they'd omitted to tell me.
So, click on the "Forgot Password" button where it asks me to enter the email address my account was opened with. Trying all four addresses I've used over the last decade, one after the other, garners nothing but "password change request failed". Send an email to Freeparking support, who reply within the hour (my experience with them has always been good). Unfortunately their reply is that my domain has expired. Gobsmacked, because for the eight years I've had the domain they've always sent me a renewal reminder in plenty of time. Flurry of emails establishes that there's still time to renew before the domain name gets scrubbed or sold, but to do that I have to get into my account. Can they tell me the password? No they can't, but they can tell me the right email address is my BTinternet address. Go back to Forgot Password and use that, but still no password reset mail.
At this point I must explain my neo-byzantine email architecture. Gmail is my main hub where I read and write all my mail. It gathers POP mail from my old Aol and Cix addresses, and dickpountain.co.uk is simply redirected into it, but all mail redirected from dickpountain.co.uk also gets copied to my BTinternet account as a sort of backup. Unfortunately, with the domain expired, that feedback loop appears to have broken too.
By now I'm starting to gibber under my breath, and the word "nightmare" has cropped up in a couple of messages to support. I ask them to change the email address on my account to my Gmail address, but they can't do that without full identity verification, so I send a scan of my passport, they change the address, and password resets still don't arrive... Now desperate, I try once more entering each of four old addresses and make this discovery: three of them say "password reset request failed", but Aol actually says nothing. Whirring of mental cogs, clatter of deductions: the account address is actually Aol and reset requests are going there, but Gmail isn't harvesting them. Go to Aol.com, and try to access my email account (which has been dormant for best part of a decade) and am told that due to "irregular activities" the account has been locked. I now know that a Lenovo Yoga doesn't show teeth marks...
Another whole email correspondence ensues with aolukverify@aol.com, with both a passport and water bill required this time, and I get back into the Aol account, where sure enough are all the password reset mails, as well as Freeparking's renewal reminders. I get back into Freeparking account and after a bit of nonsense involving PayPal, VISA and HSBC I renew my domain. Don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining about the serious way both companies treated my security, and their support people were both helpful and efficient. There's really no moral to this tale beyond the 2nd Law of Thermodynamics: ignore something for long enough and entropy will break it while your back is turned.
The only thing is, it sparked off a horrible fantasy. It's the year 2025 and President Trump is getting ratty as the end of his second term approaches. Vladimir Putin, who has married one of his ex-wives, makes one nasty jibe too many over the phone and Donald presses the Big Red button - then thinks better of it and goes to the Big Green Reset button. He can't remember the password, and on pressing Forgot Password the memorable question is the middle name of his second wife (case-and-accent-sensitive)...
Monday 19 September 2016
Monday 8 August 2016
OLOGIES AND ACIES
Dick Pountain/ Idealog 260 /09 March 2016 13:42
I imagine many readers are well old enough to remember BT's 1988 TV advert starring Maureen Lipman, where she comforted her grandson for his bad exam results by pointing out that he'd passed an "ology" (even if it was just sociology). I've never obtained an ology myself, only an "istry" or two, but in any case I'm actually rather more interested in "acies": literacy, numeracy and a couple of others that have no acy name.
Not a day goes by without me being thankful for receiving an excellent scientific education. A couple of decades ago I'd have thought twice before admitting that, but no longer because pop science has become a hugely important part of popular culture, from TED talks to sci-fi movies, via miles and bookshelf miles of explanatory books on cosmology, neuroscience, genetics, mathematics, particle physics, even a few ologies. Being a nerd is now a badge of honour. But my thankfulness has little to do with any of that, and more to do with the way basic numeracy, plus a knowledge of statistics ("riskacy"?) and energetics ("ergacy"?) help me understand everything that life throws at me, from everyday accidents and illnesses, through politics to my entire philosophical outlook.
Take for example relationships with doctors. As an aging male I'm on the receiving end of a variety of government-sponsored preventive medicine initiatives, aimed at reducing the incidence of heart attack, stroke, diabetes and other disorders. After an annual battery of tests I'm encouraged to consider taking a variety of drugs, but before agreeing I ask my GP to show me the test results on his PC screen, both as annual historical graphs and raw figures compared to recommended ranges. When shown my thyroid hormone level marginally out of range, I can argue about experimental error and standard deviations, and win since my doctor's no statistician. This process has lead me take lisinopril for my blood pressure, but refuse statins for my marginal cholesterol and ditto for thyroxin.
Numeracy, particularly concerning percentages and rates of change (ie. calculus) is becoming essential to an understanding of just about everything. If some website tells you that eating hot dogs increases your risk of stomach cancer by 20%, you need to be able to ask from what base-rate: 0.000103 rising to 0.000124 doesn't sound nearly so scary. Western citizens face a risk of death from terrorism way below that from being in a car crash, but those risks *feel* very different subjectively. We accept driving risk more readily than dying from an inexplicable act of violence, our politicians know this and so over-react to terrorism and under-react to road safety. But the "acy" that's most poorly distributed of all concerns energetics.
Perhaps a minority of scientists, and almost no lay people, understand the laws of thermodynamics in theory, let alone have an intuitive grasp that could be usefully applied to everyday life. Thanks to the pop science boom, everyone knows Einstein's formula E = MC², but that's only marginally relevant to everyday life since we don't ride nuclear-powered cars or busses, and our bodies run on chemical rather than nuclear reactions. Hence the confusion among would-be dieters over counting calories: does water have any calories?, do carrots have more than celery?
Some variables that really do matter for an energetic understanding of life are energy density and the rate at which energy gets converted from one form to another. You could place a bowl of porridge on the table alongside a piece of dynamite that contains the same number of calories. Dynamite has around 300 times the energy density of porridge so it will be a small piece. More important though, the calories in the porridge (as starches, sugars, protein) get converted to muscular effort and heat rather slowly by your digestive system, while a detonator turns the dynamite's calories into light, heat and sound very quickly indeed. But grind wheat or oats to a fine-enough powder, mix with air as a dust cloud, and deadly industrial explosions can occur.
Energy density calculations affect the mobile device business greatly, both when seeking new battery technologies and considering the safety of existing ones like lithium-ion (just ask Boeing). As for transport, fossil fuels and climate change, they're equally crucial. Electric cars like Tesla are just about do-able now, but electric airliners aren't and may never be, because the energy density of batteries compared to hydrocarbons is nowhere near enough. And when people fantasise online about the possibility of transporting the human race to colonise Mars, energetics is seldom properly discussed. We all ultimately live off energy (and negative entropy) that we receive from sunlight, but Mars is much further away. Try working out the energetics of "terraforming" before you book a ticket...
I imagine many readers are well old enough to remember BT's 1988 TV advert starring Maureen Lipman, where she comforted her grandson for his bad exam results by pointing out that he'd passed an "ology" (even if it was just sociology). I've never obtained an ology myself, only an "istry" or two, but in any case I'm actually rather more interested in "acies": literacy, numeracy and a couple of others that have no acy name.
Not a day goes by without me being thankful for receiving an excellent scientific education. A couple of decades ago I'd have thought twice before admitting that, but no longer because pop science has become a hugely important part of popular culture, from TED talks to sci-fi movies, via miles and bookshelf miles of explanatory books on cosmology, neuroscience, genetics, mathematics, particle physics, even a few ologies. Being a nerd is now a badge of honour. But my thankfulness has little to do with any of that, and more to do with the way basic numeracy, plus a knowledge of statistics ("riskacy"?) and energetics ("ergacy"?) help me understand everything that life throws at me, from everyday accidents and illnesses, through politics to my entire philosophical outlook.
Take for example relationships with doctors. As an aging male I'm on the receiving end of a variety of government-sponsored preventive medicine initiatives, aimed at reducing the incidence of heart attack, stroke, diabetes and other disorders. After an annual battery of tests I'm encouraged to consider taking a variety of drugs, but before agreeing I ask my GP to show me the test results on his PC screen, both as annual historical graphs and raw figures compared to recommended ranges. When shown my thyroid hormone level marginally out of range, I can argue about experimental error and standard deviations, and win since my doctor's no statistician. This process has lead me take lisinopril for my blood pressure, but refuse statins for my marginal cholesterol and ditto for thyroxin.
Numeracy, particularly concerning percentages and rates of change (ie. calculus) is becoming essential to an understanding of just about everything. If some website tells you that eating hot dogs increases your risk of stomach cancer by 20%, you need to be able to ask from what base-rate: 0.000103 rising to 0.000124 doesn't sound nearly so scary. Western citizens face a risk of death from terrorism way below that from being in a car crash, but those risks *feel* very different subjectively. We accept driving risk more readily than dying from an inexplicable act of violence, our politicians know this and so over-react to terrorism and under-react to road safety. But the "acy" that's most poorly distributed of all concerns energetics.
Perhaps a minority of scientists, and almost no lay people, understand the laws of thermodynamics in theory, let alone have an intuitive grasp that could be usefully applied to everyday life. Thanks to the pop science boom, everyone knows Einstein's formula E = MC², but that's only marginally relevant to everyday life since we don't ride nuclear-powered cars or busses, and our bodies run on chemical rather than nuclear reactions. Hence the confusion among would-be dieters over counting calories: does water have any calories?, do carrots have more than celery?
Some variables that really do matter for an energetic understanding of life are energy density and the rate at which energy gets converted from one form to another. You could place a bowl of porridge on the table alongside a piece of dynamite that contains the same number of calories. Dynamite has around 300 times the energy density of porridge so it will be a small piece. More important though, the calories in the porridge (as starches, sugars, protein) get converted to muscular effort and heat rather slowly by your digestive system, while a detonator turns the dynamite's calories into light, heat and sound very quickly indeed. But grind wheat or oats to a fine-enough powder, mix with air as a dust cloud, and deadly industrial explosions can occur.
Energy density calculations affect the mobile device business greatly, both when seeking new battery technologies and considering the safety of existing ones like lithium-ion (just ask Boeing). As for transport, fossil fuels and climate change, they're equally crucial. Electric cars like Tesla are just about do-able now, but electric airliners aren't and may never be, because the energy density of batteries compared to hydrocarbons is nowhere near enough. And when people fantasise online about the possibility of transporting the human race to colonise Mars, energetics is seldom properly discussed. We all ultimately live off energy (and negative entropy) that we receive from sunlight, but Mars is much further away. Try working out the energetics of "terraforming" before you book a ticket...
GAME ON?
Dick Pountain/ Idealog 259 /08 February 2016 11:16
I wouldn't ever describe myself as a gamer, but that's not to say that I've never played any computer games. On the contrary, I was once so hooked on Microsoft's "FreeCell" version of solitaire that I would download lists of solutions and complexity analyses by maths nerds. I was almost relieved when those miserable sods at Redmond removed it from Windows 7, and have resisted buying any other version. Long, long before that I played text adventures like Zork (under CP/M), Wizardry (crude graphics, on Apple II but nevertheless highly addictive), and graphic shooters like Doom. I even finished the hilariously grisly Duke Nukem. I still play a single game - the gorgeous French "stretchy" platform game Contre Jour - on my Android tablet.
So, with this rap-sheet, how can I claim not to be gamer? Because I lost all interest in shoot-'em-ups after Duke Nukem, never got into the modern generation of super-realistic shooters like Call of Duty and Grand Theft Auto, and have never purchased a computer for its game-play performance. I do realise that this cuts me off from a major strand of popular culture among today's youth, and *the* major source of current entertainment industry revenues, but I had no idea just how far I'd cut myself off until I read an article in the Guardian last week.
Called "Why my dream of becoming a pro gamer ended in utter failure" (http://gu.com/p/4fzjt/sbl), this fascinating article by tech reporter Alex Hern came as a revelation to me. First of all, I had only the vaguest idea that computer games were being played for money, but secondly I was utterly clueless as to exactly *how* these games are being monetised. The games Hern played aren't GTA-style shooters but up-to-date versions of that mean old Wizardry I used to play, in which play proceeds by casting spells, chosen from a range of zillions. The strategy of these games, played online against human opponents, lies in carefully choosing the deck of spell cards you'll deploy, and in how and when to deploy each one. In game-theoretic terms this is fairly close to Poker, revolving around forming a mental map of your opponents' minds and strategies. And like Poker, these games (for example Hearthstone, which Hern tried) are played in championship series with huge cash prizes of £100,000, but as he soon realized, only one person gets that pay-off and the rest get nothing for a huge expenditure of playing effort. Instead the way most pro gamers get a regular, but more modest, pay-off is by setting up a channel on social-network Twitch, on which people watch you play while being shown paid-for ads.
I'll say that again in case it hasn't sunk in. You're playing a computer simulation of imaginary spell casting, against invisible opponents via a comms link, and people are paying to watch. This intrigues me because it fits so beautifully into a new analysis of modern economies - one might call it the "Uberisation Of Everything" - that I'm, along with many others, trying to explore. Everyone has recently been getting all whooped up about robots stealing our jobs, but for many young people the miserable jobs on offer are no longer worth protecting, and they dream instead of getting rich quickly by exploiting what talents they were born with: a pretty face, a fine voice, a strong imagination, in football, in hip-hop, or... in streaming Hearthstone.
IT lies at the very heart of this phenomenon. Long before robots get smart enough to do all human jobs, computers are assisting humans to do jobs that once required enormous, sometimes lifelong, effort to learn. Uber lets you be a taxi-driver without doing "The Knowledge"; a synthesiser makes you into an instant keyboard player and auto-tune a viable singer; an iPhone can make you a movie director; and Twitch can make you a Poker, or Hearthstone, or Magic pro. The casino aspect of all this, that your luck might make you instantly rich so you don't have to work, merely mirrors the official morality of the finance sector, where young dealers can make billion dollar plays and end up driving Ferraris (and very rarely in jail, LIBOR-fiddling notwithstanding). This is the economics, not of the Wild West itself, but of Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show. Over recent decades the media have so thoroughly exposed us all to the lifestyles of billionaires that now everyone aspires to be a star at something, work is regarded as the curse that Oscar Wilde always told us it was, and money (lots of it) is seen as the primary means to purchase pleasure and self-esteem. The Protestant Work Ethic that motivated our parents or grandparents is being flushed spiralling down the pan...
I wouldn't ever describe myself as a gamer, but that's not to say that I've never played any computer games. On the contrary, I was once so hooked on Microsoft's "FreeCell" version of solitaire that I would download lists of solutions and complexity analyses by maths nerds. I was almost relieved when those miserable sods at Redmond removed it from Windows 7, and have resisted buying any other version. Long, long before that I played text adventures like Zork (under CP/M), Wizardry (crude graphics, on Apple II but nevertheless highly addictive), and graphic shooters like Doom. I even finished the hilariously grisly Duke Nukem. I still play a single game - the gorgeous French "stretchy" platform game Contre Jour - on my Android tablet.
So, with this rap-sheet, how can I claim not to be gamer? Because I lost all interest in shoot-'em-ups after Duke Nukem, never got into the modern generation of super-realistic shooters like Call of Duty and Grand Theft Auto, and have never purchased a computer for its game-play performance. I do realise that this cuts me off from a major strand of popular culture among today's youth, and *the* major source of current entertainment industry revenues, but I had no idea just how far I'd cut myself off until I read an article in the Guardian last week.
Called "Why my dream of becoming a pro gamer ended in utter failure" (http://gu.com/p/4fzjt/sbl), this fascinating article by tech reporter Alex Hern came as a revelation to me. First of all, I had only the vaguest idea that computer games were being played for money, but secondly I was utterly clueless as to exactly *how* these games are being monetised. The games Hern played aren't GTA-style shooters but up-to-date versions of that mean old Wizardry I used to play, in which play proceeds by casting spells, chosen from a range of zillions. The strategy of these games, played online against human opponents, lies in carefully choosing the deck of spell cards you'll deploy, and in how and when to deploy each one. In game-theoretic terms this is fairly close to Poker, revolving around forming a mental map of your opponents' minds and strategies. And like Poker, these games (for example Hearthstone, which Hern tried) are played in championship series with huge cash prizes of £100,000, but as he soon realized, only one person gets that pay-off and the rest get nothing for a huge expenditure of playing effort. Instead the way most pro gamers get a regular, but more modest, pay-off is by setting up a channel on social-network Twitch, on which people watch you play while being shown paid-for ads.
I'll say that again in case it hasn't sunk in. You're playing a computer simulation of imaginary spell casting, against invisible opponents via a comms link, and people are paying to watch. This intrigues me because it fits so beautifully into a new analysis of modern economies - one might call it the "Uberisation Of Everything" - that I'm, along with many others, trying to explore. Everyone has recently been getting all whooped up about robots stealing our jobs, but for many young people the miserable jobs on offer are no longer worth protecting, and they dream instead of getting rich quickly by exploiting what talents they were born with: a pretty face, a fine voice, a strong imagination, in football, in hip-hop, or... in streaming Hearthstone.
IT lies at the very heart of this phenomenon. Long before robots get smart enough to do all human jobs, computers are assisting humans to do jobs that once required enormous, sometimes lifelong, effort to learn. Uber lets you be a taxi-driver without doing "The Knowledge"; a synthesiser makes you into an instant keyboard player and auto-tune a viable singer; an iPhone can make you a movie director; and Twitch can make you a Poker, or Hearthstone, or Magic pro. The casino aspect of all this, that your luck might make you instantly rich so you don't have to work, merely mirrors the official morality of the finance sector, where young dealers can make billion dollar plays and end up driving Ferraris (and very rarely in jail, LIBOR-fiddling notwithstanding). This is the economics, not of the Wild West itself, but of Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show. Over recent decades the media have so thoroughly exposed us all to the lifestyles of billionaires that now everyone aspires to be a star at something, work is regarded as the curse that Oscar Wilde always told us it was, and money (lots of it) is seen as the primary means to purchase pleasure and self-esteem. The Protestant Work Ethic that motivated our parents or grandparents is being flushed spiralling down the pan...
Thursday 9 June 2016
I GOT (ALGO)RHYTHM
Dick Pountain/Idealog 258/06 January 2016 14:02
Regular readers might have gathered by now that music ranks equal first - alongside photography and programming - among my favourite recreations. In fact I combine all three in various ways, for example by applying filters to process my pictures, and by writing code to generate musical compositions. It's the latter that concerns me in this column. Around 14 years ago I first became interested in computer composition, and was inspired to write my own MIDI interface in Turbo Pascal v4 (my language squeeze of the time).
Rather than generating real-time music, this unit let me output MIDI files from Pascal programs, which could then be played in my sequencer of choice. I messed around for a while trying to do US-style minimalism (think Adams, Glass, Reich, Riley) constructing complex fugues and phase-change tunes that no human could play. The results never really satisfied me, partly because General MIDI instruments sounded pretty crap through the sound-cards of that era, and because I regularly ran up against shortage of memory problems, using what remained a more or less 16-bit development system. I put the project aside for around 10 years until another spurt of enthusiasm arrived (still using Turbo, but now running in a DOS box on a Pentium/Windows XP system). That time around I made some tunes that were sufficiently convincing to put up on SoundCloud, but there were still nagging problems.
Basically the structure of compiled Pascal confined me to writing quite short tunes. Using fixed length strings and arrays as my main data structures made long-range structure, like successive movements on a varying theme, just too cumbersome to achieve, but creating separate short movements and splicing them together by hand was cheating. My whole intention was to write single programs that generated pieces of recognizable music, interesting if not necessarily pleasant.
Around this time I finally shucked off my (increasingly anachronistic) addiction to Turbo Pascal and fell wildly for Ruby, as documented in previous columns, but never did quite get around to rewriting my composing system in it. There things rested again, until as described a couple of columns ago I remade acquaintance with the hitherto spurned Python language. In order to get up to speed in it I rewrote my venerable Poker program - first effort in Basic on Commodore Pet circa 1980; next in Delphi under Windows; last in Ruby circa 2002 - which translated with surprising ease into Python. Brimming with confidence I thought, it's now or never, and got stuck into rewriting my music system.
I struggled at first because the kind of bare-metal-bit-twiddling (curse you MIDI Variable-Length Quantity!) that's so easy in Turbo Pascal is far from obvious using Python's arbitrary-precision integers. Scanning the forums I soon found a GNU-licensed library by Mark Conway Wirt that does exactly what my old TP one did though, and I was away. Writing the higher level parts proved a revelation. Python's powerful dynamic sequence types the tuple, the list and the dictionary, enabled me to do away with fixed-length arrays and memory allocation altogether, and let me completely redesign the system.
The raw materials of my music remain strings representing sequences of pitch, time, duration and volume values, but now my top-level primitive called MIDIseq.phrase sucks in four such strings, like a ribosome chewing RNA, and chops them up into 4-tuples which are far more efficient and flexible for further processing. All of a sudden, thanks merely to a different set of data structures, my long-range structure problems went away: both horizontal (melody) and vertical (harmony) structures are now essentially without limit. I can write functions to generate random strings, reverse them, invert them, mix and combine them, even evolve them. Python's lambda functions let me generate novel musical scales and apply them on the fly, while iterators offer a fabulously compact way to encode long stretches of melody.
I could hardly be more impressed by this text-book example of what the more savvy computer scientists have been telling us for decades, namely that programs equal algorithms plus data structures, not just algorithms. This deep truth is in serious danger of being lost nowadays, partly thanks to some of the truly awful languages the market has foisted upon us, and partly due to the TED generation's rather naive awe about algorithms. In popular journalism algorithms are all we ever hear about: Google's new search algorithm, the latest AI algorithms, what's the algorithm for a conscious robot, and worse inanities. What neuroscience actually teaches us about the way the brain works is that it's hardly an algorithmic engine at all, and depends rather little on sequential processing. It's really more like a big, soft, fatty mass of fabulously clever data structures. But enough of that, back to my "Contracerto in Z Flat Minor"...
[Dick Pountain is sorely tempted to enter an Internet Of Things fridge for the 2016 Eurovision Song Contest]
Regular readers might have gathered by now that music ranks equal first - alongside photography and programming - among my favourite recreations. In fact I combine all three in various ways, for example by applying filters to process my pictures, and by writing code to generate musical compositions. It's the latter that concerns me in this column. Around 14 years ago I first became interested in computer composition, and was inspired to write my own MIDI interface in Turbo Pascal v4 (my language squeeze of the time).
Rather than generating real-time music, this unit let me output MIDI files from Pascal programs, which could then be played in my sequencer of choice. I messed around for a while trying to do US-style minimalism (think Adams, Glass, Reich, Riley) constructing complex fugues and phase-change tunes that no human could play. The results never really satisfied me, partly because General MIDI instruments sounded pretty crap through the sound-cards of that era, and because I regularly ran up against shortage of memory problems, using what remained a more or less 16-bit development system. I put the project aside for around 10 years until another spurt of enthusiasm arrived (still using Turbo, but now running in a DOS box on a Pentium/Windows XP system). That time around I made some tunes that were sufficiently convincing to put up on SoundCloud, but there were still nagging problems.
Basically the structure of compiled Pascal confined me to writing quite short tunes. Using fixed length strings and arrays as my main data structures made long-range structure, like successive movements on a varying theme, just too cumbersome to achieve, but creating separate short movements and splicing them together by hand was cheating. My whole intention was to write single programs that generated pieces of recognizable music, interesting if not necessarily pleasant.
Around this time I finally shucked off my (increasingly anachronistic) addiction to Turbo Pascal and fell wildly for Ruby, as documented in previous columns, but never did quite get around to rewriting my composing system in it. There things rested again, until as described a couple of columns ago I remade acquaintance with the hitherto spurned Python language. In order to get up to speed in it I rewrote my venerable Poker program - first effort in Basic on Commodore Pet circa 1980; next in Delphi under Windows; last in Ruby circa 2002 - which translated with surprising ease into Python. Brimming with confidence I thought, it's now or never, and got stuck into rewriting my music system.
I struggled at first because the kind of bare-metal-bit-twiddling (curse you MIDI Variable-Length Quantity!) that's so easy in Turbo Pascal is far from obvious using Python's arbitrary-precision integers. Scanning the forums I soon found a GNU-licensed library by Mark Conway Wirt that does exactly what my old TP one did though, and I was away. Writing the higher level parts proved a revelation. Python's powerful dynamic sequence types the tuple, the list and the dictionary, enabled me to do away with fixed-length arrays and memory allocation altogether, and let me completely redesign the system.
The raw materials of my music remain strings representing sequences of pitch, time, duration and volume values, but now my top-level primitive called MIDIseq.phrase sucks in four such strings, like a ribosome chewing RNA, and chops them up into 4-tuples which are far more efficient and flexible for further processing. All of a sudden, thanks merely to a different set of data structures, my long-range structure problems went away: both horizontal (melody) and vertical (harmony) structures are now essentially without limit. I can write functions to generate random strings, reverse them, invert them, mix and combine them, even evolve them. Python's lambda functions let me generate novel musical scales and apply them on the fly, while iterators offer a fabulously compact way to encode long stretches of melody.
I could hardly be more impressed by this text-book example of what the more savvy computer scientists have been telling us for decades, namely that programs equal algorithms plus data structures, not just algorithms. This deep truth is in serious danger of being lost nowadays, partly thanks to some of the truly awful languages the market has foisted upon us, and partly due to the TED generation's rather naive awe about algorithms. In popular journalism algorithms are all we ever hear about: Google's new search algorithm, the latest AI algorithms, what's the algorithm for a conscious robot, and worse inanities. What neuroscience actually teaches us about the way the brain works is that it's hardly an algorithmic engine at all, and depends rather little on sequential processing. It's really more like a big, soft, fatty mass of fabulously clever data structures. But enough of that, back to my "Contracerto in Z Flat Minor"...
[Dick Pountain is sorely tempted to enter an Internet Of Things fridge for the 2016 Eurovision Song Contest]
COMMAND AND CONTROL
Dick Pountain/ Idealog 257/ 04 December 2015 09:34
During those awful last weeks of November 2015, with the bombing of a Russian passenger jet, the Paris shootings and the acrimonious debate over UK airstrikes in Syria, it was very easy to overlook a small but important news story, an Indonesian report into the loss of AirAsia flight QZ8501. In December 2014 that plane crashed into the Java Sea with loss of all 162 passengers and crew, and recovered "black box" data has enabled investigators to come to a firm, but disturbing, conclusion about the cause. It was what you might call software-assisted human error.
A broken solder joint in the Airbus 320-200's rudder travel limit sensor (probably frost damage) sent a series of error signals that caused the autopilot to turn itself off and forced the crew to take back manual control. Flustered by this series of messages the flight crew made a fatal error: the captain ordered the co-pilot, who had the controls, to "pull down", intending to reduce altitude. It was an ambiguous command which the co-pilot misinterpreted by *pulling* back on the stick, sending QZ8501 soaring up to its maximum height of 38,000 feet followed by a fatally irretrievable stall. The report recommends that international aviation authorities issue a new terminology guide to regularise commands in such emergencies, but I reckon this was a problem of more than just the words. Like all modern jets the Airbus 320 is fly-by-wire, with only electronic links from stick to control surfaces, and in current designs there's little mechanical feedback through the stick ("haptic" feedback is planned for the next generation, due from 2017). I'd guess that co-pilot received few cues to the enormity of his error by way of his hand on the stick. It's not enough to *be* in control, you have to *feel* in control.
I've been intrigued by the psychology of man-machine interaction ever since I saw ergonomic research by IBM, back in the '80s, that showed that any computer process which takes longer than four seconds to complete without visual feedback makes a user fear that it's broken. That insight lead to all the progress-bars, hour-glasses and spinning hoops we've become so tediously familiar with since. An obscure and controversial branch of psychology called Perceptual Control Theory (PCT) can explain such phenonomena, by contesting the principal dogma of modern psychology, namely that we control our behaviour by responding directly to external stimuli (fundamental to both old-style Behaviourism and newer Cognitive versions). PCT says we don't directly control our behaviour at all, we modify our *perceptions* of external stimuli through subconcious negative feedback loops that then indirectly modify our behaviour.
A classic example might be riding a bike: you don't estimate the visual angle of the frame from vertical and then adjust your posture to fit, you minimise your feeling of falling by continuously and unconsciously adjusting posture. Similar mechanisms apply to all kinds of actions and learning processes and I was easy to convince because from childhood I've always hated skating (roller, ice, skiing), but I still love riding motorbikes at speed. There's no contradiction: when skating my feet feel out of control, whereas when biking they don't. Just some quirk of my inner ear. However this all has some fairly important consequences for current debates about robotics, and driverless cars in particular.
The recent spate of celebrity doom-warnings about AI and robot domination are all directed against current assumptions that fully autonomous machines and vehicles are both desirable and inevitable. But maybe they're neither? The sad fate of AirAsia QZ8501 suggests both that over-reliance on the autopilot is severely reducing the ability of human crews to respond to emergencies, and also that it would be good to simulate the sort of mechanical feedback that pilots of old received through the stick, so they instinctively feel when they're steering into danger. All autonomous machines should be fitted, by law, with full manual-override that permits actual (or, grudgingly, simulated) mechanical control. Boosters of driverless cars will retort that computers react far faster than humans and can be programmed to drive more responsibly, which is quite true until they go wrong, which they will. Perhaps we need at last to augment Isaac Asimov's three laws of robotics:
1. A robot may not injure a human being or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm.
2. A robot must obey the orders given it by human beings except where such orders would conflict with the First Law.
3. A robot must protect its own existence as long as such protection does not conflict with the First or Second Laws.
4. A robot must if instructed drop dead, even where such an order conflicts with the First, Second, and Third Laws.
[Dick Pountain believes that any application vendor whose progress-bar sticks at 99% for more than four seconds should suffer videoed beheading]
During those awful last weeks of November 2015, with the bombing of a Russian passenger jet, the Paris shootings and the acrimonious debate over UK airstrikes in Syria, it was very easy to overlook a small but important news story, an Indonesian report into the loss of AirAsia flight QZ8501. In December 2014 that plane crashed into the Java Sea with loss of all 162 passengers and crew, and recovered "black box" data has enabled investigators to come to a firm, but disturbing, conclusion about the cause. It was what you might call software-assisted human error.
A broken solder joint in the Airbus 320-200's rudder travel limit sensor (probably frost damage) sent a series of error signals that caused the autopilot to turn itself off and forced the crew to take back manual control. Flustered by this series of messages the flight crew made a fatal error: the captain ordered the co-pilot, who had the controls, to "pull down", intending to reduce altitude. It was an ambiguous command which the co-pilot misinterpreted by *pulling* back on the stick, sending QZ8501 soaring up to its maximum height of 38,000 feet followed by a fatally irretrievable stall. The report recommends that international aviation authorities issue a new terminology guide to regularise commands in such emergencies, but I reckon this was a problem of more than just the words. Like all modern jets the Airbus 320 is fly-by-wire, with only electronic links from stick to control surfaces, and in current designs there's little mechanical feedback through the stick ("haptic" feedback is planned for the next generation, due from 2017). I'd guess that co-pilot received few cues to the enormity of his error by way of his hand on the stick. It's not enough to *be* in control, you have to *feel* in control.
I've been intrigued by the psychology of man-machine interaction ever since I saw ergonomic research by IBM, back in the '80s, that showed that any computer process which takes longer than four seconds to complete without visual feedback makes a user fear that it's broken. That insight lead to all the progress-bars, hour-glasses and spinning hoops we've become so tediously familiar with since. An obscure and controversial branch of psychology called Perceptual Control Theory (PCT) can explain such phenonomena, by contesting the principal dogma of modern psychology, namely that we control our behaviour by responding directly to external stimuli (fundamental to both old-style Behaviourism and newer Cognitive versions). PCT says we don't directly control our behaviour at all, we modify our *perceptions* of external stimuli through subconcious negative feedback loops that then indirectly modify our behaviour.
A classic example might be riding a bike: you don't estimate the visual angle of the frame from vertical and then adjust your posture to fit, you minimise your feeling of falling by continuously and unconsciously adjusting posture. Similar mechanisms apply to all kinds of actions and learning processes and I was easy to convince because from childhood I've always hated skating (roller, ice, skiing), but I still love riding motorbikes at speed. There's no contradiction: when skating my feet feel out of control, whereas when biking they don't. Just some quirk of my inner ear. However this all has some fairly important consequences for current debates about robotics, and driverless cars in particular.
The recent spate of celebrity doom-warnings about AI and robot domination are all directed against current assumptions that fully autonomous machines and vehicles are both desirable and inevitable. But maybe they're neither? The sad fate of AirAsia QZ8501 suggests both that over-reliance on the autopilot is severely reducing the ability of human crews to respond to emergencies, and also that it would be good to simulate the sort of mechanical feedback that pilots of old received through the stick, so they instinctively feel when they're steering into danger. All autonomous machines should be fitted, by law, with full manual-override that permits actual (or, grudgingly, simulated) mechanical control. Boosters of driverless cars will retort that computers react far faster than humans and can be programmed to drive more responsibly, which is quite true until they go wrong, which they will. Perhaps we need at last to augment Isaac Asimov's three laws of robotics:
1. A robot may not injure a human being or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm.
2. A robot must obey the orders given it by human beings except where such orders would conflict with the First Law.
3. A robot must protect its own existence as long as such protection does not conflict with the First or Second Laws.
4. A robot must if instructed drop dead, even where such an order conflicts with the First, Second, and Third Laws.
[Dick Pountain believes that any application vendor whose progress-bar sticks at 99% for more than four seconds should suffer videoed beheading]
Friday 22 April 2016
THE PYTHON HAS SPOKEN
Dick Pountain/Idealog256 /06 November 2015 13:09
One of the more frequent topics of this column has been my interest in programming, both as an important economic activity and, for me, a pleasing pastime: I refuse to call it a "hobby". My last such column was about Scratch, an innovative Lego-like visual programming language for teaching children (and adults) invented at MIT, and since then Kevin Partner has written an excellent PC Pro feature about Scratch (issue 253, p58, Nov 2015). In that column I confessed how I quickly I'd become hooked by Scratch's blocky metaphor, despite some major limitations, and at the very end mentioned that some Scratchers in Berkeley had extended the language to remove these limitations, and called it Snap! It was more or less inevitable that some wet weekend would arrive when I'd take a deeper, non-cursory look at Snap!, and when it did I was re-hooked several times over.
Snap! looks pretty much like Scratch, similar enough to execute most Scratch programs with little or no alteration, but it adds several missing features that make it a more grown-up language. In place of Scratch's table-like arrays it has dynamic lists as first-class, named objects; it has local variables, not merely globals like Scratch; and it supports "continuations" that enable you to pass one block as a parameter to another block, a feature from advanced functional languages like Scheme and Haskell. Given its similarity to Scratch, learning Snap! was, er, a snap and within a day I was looking for serious programs to convert. I settled on several I'd written several years ago in Ruby, including a visual matrix calculator and a visual simulation of a simple eco-system called "Critters". Both went easily into Snap! and worked well, "Critters" ending up as one single smallish block, thanks to the Scratch/Snap! concept of "sprites" (animated screen objects) which took care of all the graphics with no coding on my part.
Anyhow, the point I'm working up to is that this conversion job made a deep impression on me. It may not have escaped you that programming languages have something in common with religions, in that they can attract fanatical adherents who become impervious to criticism. My casual flip from Scratch to Snap! was a sort of apostasy and I'd enjoyed it, so I began sifting through my other Ruby projects, but in the process discovered the wreckage of an abandoned Poker program in Python. I'd flirted with Python back in 2002 but quickly abandoned it in favour of Ruby, on almost entirely aesthetic grounds. In those days I was a fanatical object-orientation nut and I hated Python's OOP syntax which involves prefixing just about everything with "self", something that Ruby managed to do without.
I've become more ecumenical since, and that weekend of Snap! coding had revived my enthusiasm for Lisp-style list programming, so to my own surprise I decided to finish that Poker program in Python rather than convert it. I downloaded a more recent version, WinPython 64-bit 3.4.3, and set to work. Instead of pursuing the pure OOP architecture I'd started with - card as a class, hand as a class, player as a class and so on - I rewrote the lower levels using Python's "tuples" instead. Each card is just a tuple (facevalue, suit), while a deck is a 52-piece tuple of cards. Soon I'd rewritten the whole thing using only tuples and lists, and never mentioned a class until I reached the player level. My code shrank to half its size, ran many times faster, and more importantly it worked, which the original never had properly. (Crucial to this success was Python's "list comprehension" construct, a fiendishly clever one-line trick for building lists by pattern matching).
This taught me a serious lesson, one that might help you too. Rigidly adhering to a single methodology can be counterproductive: recognise which tools are right for each job and use them, regardless of dogma. Cards, decks and hands didn't need or deserve to be objects (no inheritance required) while players did because they have many attributes like a hand, a bankroll, a strategy, a personality. When I wrote the original program in OOP style I'd actually obscured its structure, in favour of a class hierarchy the language imposed on me. I'll never stop claiming that good programming is an art, one in which an eye for structure is even more important than a head for logic. Factoring, that is breaking down your code into smaller chunks in the best way, and choosing the right data structures, are far closer to musical composition than they are to science. What a pity that, unlike mathematics which occasionally spawns a Hollwood movie, beauty in programming can only ever be recognised by a handful of fellow programmers.
Biog: Dick = [Idealog for Idealog in PCPro if editor_approval == True]
One of the more frequent topics of this column has been my interest in programming, both as an important economic activity and, for me, a pleasing pastime: I refuse to call it a "hobby". My last such column was about Scratch, an innovative Lego-like visual programming language for teaching children (and adults) invented at MIT, and since then Kevin Partner has written an excellent PC Pro feature about Scratch (issue 253, p58, Nov 2015). In that column I confessed how I quickly I'd become hooked by Scratch's blocky metaphor, despite some major limitations, and at the very end mentioned that some Scratchers in Berkeley had extended the language to remove these limitations, and called it Snap! It was more or less inevitable that some wet weekend would arrive when I'd take a deeper, non-cursory look at Snap!, and when it did I was re-hooked several times over.
Snap! looks pretty much like Scratch, similar enough to execute most Scratch programs with little or no alteration, but it adds several missing features that make it a more grown-up language. In place of Scratch's table-like arrays it has dynamic lists as first-class, named objects; it has local variables, not merely globals like Scratch; and it supports "continuations" that enable you to pass one block as a parameter to another block, a feature from advanced functional languages like Scheme and Haskell. Given its similarity to Scratch, learning Snap! was, er, a snap and within a day I was looking for serious programs to convert. I settled on several I'd written several years ago in Ruby, including a visual matrix calculator and a visual simulation of a simple eco-system called "Critters". Both went easily into Snap! and worked well, "Critters" ending up as one single smallish block, thanks to the Scratch/Snap! concept of "sprites" (animated screen objects) which took care of all the graphics with no coding on my part.
Anyhow, the point I'm working up to is that this conversion job made a deep impression on me. It may not have escaped you that programming languages have something in common with religions, in that they can attract fanatical adherents who become impervious to criticism. My casual flip from Scratch to Snap! was a sort of apostasy and I'd enjoyed it, so I began sifting through my other Ruby projects, but in the process discovered the wreckage of an abandoned Poker program in Python. I'd flirted with Python back in 2002 but quickly abandoned it in favour of Ruby, on almost entirely aesthetic grounds. In those days I was a fanatical object-orientation nut and I hated Python's OOP syntax which involves prefixing just about everything with "self", something that Ruby managed to do without.
I've become more ecumenical since, and that weekend of Snap! coding had revived my enthusiasm for Lisp-style list programming, so to my own surprise I decided to finish that Poker program in Python rather than convert it. I downloaded a more recent version, WinPython 64-bit 3.4.3, and set to work. Instead of pursuing the pure OOP architecture I'd started with - card as a class, hand as a class, player as a class and so on - I rewrote the lower levels using Python's "tuples" instead. Each card is just a tuple (facevalue, suit), while a deck is a 52-piece tuple of cards. Soon I'd rewritten the whole thing using only tuples and lists, and never mentioned a class until I reached the player level. My code shrank to half its size, ran many times faster, and more importantly it worked, which the original never had properly. (Crucial to this success was Python's "list comprehension" construct, a fiendishly clever one-line trick for building lists by pattern matching).
This taught me a serious lesson, one that might help you too. Rigidly adhering to a single methodology can be counterproductive: recognise which tools are right for each job and use them, regardless of dogma. Cards, decks and hands didn't need or deserve to be objects (no inheritance required) while players did because they have many attributes like a hand, a bankroll, a strategy, a personality. When I wrote the original program in OOP style I'd actually obscured its structure, in favour of a class hierarchy the language imposed on me. I'll never stop claiming that good programming is an art, one in which an eye for structure is even more important than a head for logic. Factoring, that is breaking down your code into smaller chunks in the best way, and choosing the right data structures, are far closer to musical composition than they are to science. What a pity that, unlike mathematics which occasionally spawns a Hollwood movie, beauty in programming can only ever be recognised by a handful of fellow programmers.
Biog: Dick = [Idealog for Idealog in PCPro if editor_approval == True]
Wednesday 2 March 2016
FREE AT LAST?
Dick Pountain/ Idealog 255/ 07 October 2015 14:14
This column has always respected, but never wholly believed in, the proposition that "information wants to be free". My reservations stem from realism, namely that at present information bears costs for creating, storing and distributing it, costs that have to be met somehow. Exactly how they're met is a matter not for technology but politics (or political economy, to be pedantic). For example I do believe that all digitised archives of science and out-of copyright literature should be available online for free, with the costs paid by the taxpayer as part of the education budget. Of course free-marketeers will dispute this and claim that it should all be charged for. On the other hand I also believe that those who want to write, make music, act or whatever for a living should be able to be paid to do so, and that right now the market is better at doing that than the state. This magazine continues to exist because you thought it worth paying six quid for, and advertisers thought it worth advertising in, and hence I get paid to write this column.
We can imagine other ways to get paid for creating new information. In the old, defunct Soviet Union the state did indeed subsidise many of the arts. More recently it's become possible to make serious money from YouTube videos, or writing a blog that takes adverts (even in rare cases by charging a subscription). What's certainly true though is that until food, housing, clothing, transport and bandwidth also become free, it's not going to be possible to perform such information-producing activities full-time *without* getting paid, but doing them only in one's spare time will in many cases - say novelists, concert pianists, film actors and directors - may lead to a drastic loss of quality in the information produced.
There is a problem with markets, namely that they don't *truly* enjoy competition and aspire to become monopolies. What's more, the massive selling-power of our mass media amplifies a tendency toward "winner-take-all" in many markets, whereby a tiny handful of authors, games, pop and movie stars attract almost all of the huge revenues, leaving bare survival for the rest. A third fact about markets is that many people take the attitude that not only does information *not* want to be free but it actually wants to charge rent: sufficient rent in fact for them to live merely by owning and hoarding it rather than producing it. This tendency toward rent-seeking is most obvious in those film corporations who lobbied for the extension of copyright to 75 years to protect their revenues from back-catalogue, but less blatantly it also lies behind a trend in the software business toward rental rather than outright sale of programs. Microsoft Office 365, Adobe CS and even an increasing number of Android apps are choosing this route of monthly or annual subscription only (I recently discovered that both my two favoured Android office suites, OfficeSuite and Polaris have gone this way).
I've just finished reading "PostCapitalism", a remarkable book by Paul Mason, the economics editor of Channel 4 News, who argues that not merely does information want to be free, but that it will inexorably cause everything else to become free too. His analysis is surprisingly plausible (even if dense and hard-work in places). Digital information is a substance unprecedented in human history as it can be reproduced for nothing, and this fact has effects far beyond the digital realm, subverting the mechanism by which prices are set. Profitable markets depend upon inequality of information, and once everyone has the same, instant, price information margins get squeezed toward zero (for evidence, see Amazon). Digital automation and robotic technologies also make it possible to reduce the amount of human labour needed to produce material goods, threatening to do away with millions of jobs and wages. Information has become at the same time too valuable and too cheap, undermining our whole economic model based on private property.
In one possible future finance rules, jobless people live on credit and all profit comes from rent and interest rather than from exploiting labour. In another the state pays everyone a living wage to voluntarily perform self-organised tasks that used to be state services. If that sounds crazy, consider as Mason does a familiar present-day example: “The biggest information product in the world - Wikipedia - is made by 27,000 volunteers, for free. If it were run as a commercial site, Wikipedia’s revenue could be $2.8bn a year. Yet Wikipedia makes no profit. And in doing so it makes it almost impossible for anybody else to make a profit in the same space.” So which future road map is crazy?
[Dick Pountain feels inclined to paraphrase St Augustine, "Give me free information... but not yet"]
This column has always respected, but never wholly believed in, the proposition that "information wants to be free". My reservations stem from realism, namely that at present information bears costs for creating, storing and distributing it, costs that have to be met somehow. Exactly how they're met is a matter not for technology but politics (or political economy, to be pedantic). For example I do believe that all digitised archives of science and out-of copyright literature should be available online for free, with the costs paid by the taxpayer as part of the education budget. Of course free-marketeers will dispute this and claim that it should all be charged for. On the other hand I also believe that those who want to write, make music, act or whatever for a living should be able to be paid to do so, and that right now the market is better at doing that than the state. This magazine continues to exist because you thought it worth paying six quid for, and advertisers thought it worth advertising in, and hence I get paid to write this column.
We can imagine other ways to get paid for creating new information. In the old, defunct Soviet Union the state did indeed subsidise many of the arts. More recently it's become possible to make serious money from YouTube videos, or writing a blog that takes adverts (even in rare cases by charging a subscription). What's certainly true though is that until food, housing, clothing, transport and bandwidth also become free, it's not going to be possible to perform such information-producing activities full-time *without* getting paid, but doing them only in one's spare time will in many cases - say novelists, concert pianists, film actors and directors - may lead to a drastic loss of quality in the information produced.
There is a problem with markets, namely that they don't *truly* enjoy competition and aspire to become monopolies. What's more, the massive selling-power of our mass media amplifies a tendency toward "winner-take-all" in many markets, whereby a tiny handful of authors, games, pop and movie stars attract almost all of the huge revenues, leaving bare survival for the rest. A third fact about markets is that many people take the attitude that not only does information *not* want to be free but it actually wants to charge rent: sufficient rent in fact for them to live merely by owning and hoarding it rather than producing it. This tendency toward rent-seeking is most obvious in those film corporations who lobbied for the extension of copyright to 75 years to protect their revenues from back-catalogue, but less blatantly it also lies behind a trend in the software business toward rental rather than outright sale of programs. Microsoft Office 365, Adobe CS and even an increasing number of Android apps are choosing this route of monthly or annual subscription only (I recently discovered that both my two favoured Android office suites, OfficeSuite and Polaris have gone this way).
I've just finished reading "PostCapitalism", a remarkable book by Paul Mason, the economics editor of Channel 4 News, who argues that not merely does information want to be free, but that it will inexorably cause everything else to become free too. His analysis is surprisingly plausible (even if dense and hard-work in places). Digital information is a substance unprecedented in human history as it can be reproduced for nothing, and this fact has effects far beyond the digital realm, subverting the mechanism by which prices are set. Profitable markets depend upon inequality of information, and once everyone has the same, instant, price information margins get squeezed toward zero (for evidence, see Amazon). Digital automation and robotic technologies also make it possible to reduce the amount of human labour needed to produce material goods, threatening to do away with millions of jobs and wages. Information has become at the same time too valuable and too cheap, undermining our whole economic model based on private property.
In one possible future finance rules, jobless people live on credit and all profit comes from rent and interest rather than from exploiting labour. In another the state pays everyone a living wage to voluntarily perform self-organised tasks that used to be state services. If that sounds crazy, consider as Mason does a familiar present-day example: “The biggest information product in the world - Wikipedia - is made by 27,000 volunteers, for free. If it were run as a commercial site, Wikipedia’s revenue could be $2.8bn a year. Yet Wikipedia makes no profit. And in doing so it makes it almost impossible for anybody else to make a profit in the same space.” So which future road map is crazy?
[Dick Pountain feels inclined to paraphrase St Augustine, "Give me free information... but not yet"]
Saturday 16 January 2016
GET OVER IT
Dick Pountain/ Idealog 254/11 September 2015 11:39
If you reach my advanced age you'll discover that there are some irritants it's best to learn to live with because they're too much trouble to fix. For me two such irritants are Facebook and Microsoft Windows. What high hopes we had for Facebook when it first launched in the UK: we hoped it would replace the increasingly cranky Cix as the place where we Real Worlders could meet and exchange copy, but it hasn't worked out that way. (To be sure we do maintain a group on FB, but it's mostly confined to simple announcements and no copy gets posted there).
Facebook turned out to be less like a senior common room and more like a bustling, screeching market-square that drowns out all serious intent. It has the almost magical property of instantly turning everyone who enters into a moraliser or preener rather than an information provider: "look how well I'm doing", "I defy you not to weep over this baby dolphin/kitten/meerkat", "how dare you <blah> this <blah>", "how many <blahs> have *you* <blahed>?"). A conduit for outrage and opinion rather than fact, as you can see for yourself by contrasting the tone of FB comments with those on any proper tech forum: the Greek philosophers would have said it's all about doxa (belief) rather than episteme (knowledge).
Many's the time over the past years that my finger hovered over the "Delete account" button, but that impulse passed once I discovered how to switch people's feeds off without offending them by defriending (despite FB constantly changing the way you do it, as a deterrent). I now have friends running into three figures but see only two figures-worth of posts. And recently I realised that FB makes a great "doxometer": post some nascent column idea and see how much flak it attracts (the more the better). When I recently mentioned that my Windows 8.1 indexing service had run wild and filled up my entire 500GB hard disk, I received mostly Harry Enfield style "that's not how you do it" point-scoring (having already fixed the problem using real advice gleaned from tech forums). Ditto when I posted, ironically, that what I'm hearing about the Windows 10 upgrade process is turning me into an IT "anti-vaxer". And so on to the second irritant I've learned to live with, Windows 8.1.
To look at my desktop now you'd never even guess I'm running it. The tiles are gone along with all those hooky apps. My desktop is plastered with (highly-deprecated) icons, some pointing to folders full of vital utilities, while the tools I use most are all on the taskbar, Mac style. Neither you nor I would ever know this isn't Windows 7, and it works well enough to forget about (until a minor hiccup like that full disk). Automatic updates are turned off and I pick which ones to install manually from time to time, so haven't yet had 10 stuffed onto me. Will I eventually upgrade to 10? Haven't decided. Anti-vaxer jokes aside, I worry my Lenovo is old enough (2013) to be in the danger-zone for driver SNAFUs, but also a recent article on The Register (http://www.theregister.co.uk/2015/07/31/rising_and_ongoing_cost_of_windows/) makes me wonder whether Windows 10 is intended to tie us into an Adobe-style monthly subscription, software-as-service model whereby I lose control over future upgrades.
If that does prove to be the case I'll definitely defect, not to a Mac as so often recommended by kind friends on Facebook, but to some variety of Linux. You see, I've also come to understand that I actually *enjoy* wrestling with operating systems: it's a far more fun way to keep my mental muscles exercised than solving word puzzles on a Nintendo Gameboy, in a Pringle cardigan, on the sofa. I don't object to paying for software per se - I paid for Windows 8.1 in the original cost of my Lenovo - but what I do oppose is the ongoing campaign by big software vendors to extend their monopoly status by extracting a rental, rather than sale, price from their customers. This tendency toward rent-seeking runs a counter to an opposite tendency of networked digital technologies to make software ever cheaper, even free, and thereby reduce profits (which are needed to pay for R&D, not only to distribute to shareholders). We're getting into quite profound questions here, recently the subject of Paul Mason's intriguing book "Postcapitalism" which I'm currently reading. Mason believes, as do I, that the fact that digital products can be copied effectively for free tends to undermine the ability to set rational prices which lies at the heart of current market economics. But that, illuminated by the madness that is MadBid, are a subject for next month's column...
If you reach my advanced age you'll discover that there are some irritants it's best to learn to live with because they're too much trouble to fix. For me two such irritants are Facebook and Microsoft Windows. What high hopes we had for Facebook when it first launched in the UK: we hoped it would replace the increasingly cranky Cix as the place where we Real Worlders could meet and exchange copy, but it hasn't worked out that way. (To be sure we do maintain a group on FB, but it's mostly confined to simple announcements and no copy gets posted there).
Facebook turned out to be less like a senior common room and more like a bustling, screeching market-square that drowns out all serious intent. It has the almost magical property of instantly turning everyone who enters into a moraliser or preener rather than an information provider: "look how well I'm doing", "I defy you not to weep over this baby dolphin/kitten/meerkat", "how dare you <blah> this <blah>", "how many <blahs> have *you* <blahed>?"). A conduit for outrage and opinion rather than fact, as you can see for yourself by contrasting the tone of FB comments with those on any proper tech forum: the Greek philosophers would have said it's all about doxa (belief) rather than episteme (knowledge).
Many's the time over the past years that my finger hovered over the "Delete account" button, but that impulse passed once I discovered how to switch people's feeds off without offending them by defriending (despite FB constantly changing the way you do it, as a deterrent). I now have friends running into three figures but see only two figures-worth of posts. And recently I realised that FB makes a great "doxometer": post some nascent column idea and see how much flak it attracts (the more the better). When I recently mentioned that my Windows 8.1 indexing service had run wild and filled up my entire 500GB hard disk, I received mostly Harry Enfield style "that's not how you do it" point-scoring (having already fixed the problem using real advice gleaned from tech forums). Ditto when I posted, ironically, that what I'm hearing about the Windows 10 upgrade process is turning me into an IT "anti-vaxer". And so on to the second irritant I've learned to live with, Windows 8.1.
To look at my desktop now you'd never even guess I'm running it. The tiles are gone along with all those hooky apps. My desktop is plastered with (highly-deprecated) icons, some pointing to folders full of vital utilities, while the tools I use most are all on the taskbar, Mac style. Neither you nor I would ever know this isn't Windows 7, and it works well enough to forget about (until a minor hiccup like that full disk). Automatic updates are turned off and I pick which ones to install manually from time to time, so haven't yet had 10 stuffed onto me. Will I eventually upgrade to 10? Haven't decided. Anti-vaxer jokes aside, I worry my Lenovo is old enough (2013) to be in the danger-zone for driver SNAFUs, but also a recent article on The Register (http://www.theregister.co.uk/2015/07/31/rising_and_ongoing_cost_of_windows/) makes me wonder whether Windows 10 is intended to tie us into an Adobe-style monthly subscription, software-as-service model whereby I lose control over future upgrades.
If that does prove to be the case I'll definitely defect, not to a Mac as so often recommended by kind friends on Facebook, but to some variety of Linux. You see, I've also come to understand that I actually *enjoy* wrestling with operating systems: it's a far more fun way to keep my mental muscles exercised than solving word puzzles on a Nintendo Gameboy, in a Pringle cardigan, on the sofa. I don't object to paying for software per se - I paid for Windows 8.1 in the original cost of my Lenovo - but what I do oppose is the ongoing campaign by big software vendors to extend their monopoly status by extracting a rental, rather than sale, price from their customers. This tendency toward rent-seeking runs a counter to an opposite tendency of networked digital technologies to make software ever cheaper, even free, and thereby reduce profits (which are needed to pay for R&D, not only to distribute to shareholders). We're getting into quite profound questions here, recently the subject of Paul Mason's intriguing book "Postcapitalism" which I'm currently reading. Mason believes, as do I, that the fact that digital products can be copied effectively for free tends to undermine the ability to set rational prices which lies at the heart of current market economics. But that, illuminated by the madness that is MadBid, are a subject for next month's column...
TEN COMMANDMENTS OF SAFETY
Dick Pountain/Idealog 253/06 August 2015 14:58
Perhaps you were as disturbed as I was by that report, back in May, that a US hacker travelling on a Boeing airliner claimed to have penetrate its flight control system via the entertainment system's Wi-Fi, and made the plane climb and turn from his laptop. Aviation experts have since rubbished his claim (but then Mandy Rice Davies would definitely apply). It did however concentrate my mind, in a most unwelcome fashion, on the fact that all the planes we fly in nowadays employ fly-by-wire under software-control, and that my confidence in software engineers falls some way short of my confidence in mechanical engineers.
This nagging anxiety was rubbed in further by the fatal crash of a military Airbus A400M in July, after its engine control software shut down three of its four engines just after take-off. It appears that accidental erasure of some config files during installation had deprived the software of certain torque calibration parameters that it needed to monitor engine power. These (literally) vital numbers were being loaded from an external file, so in other words the safety of this aircraft was being governed by a programming practice on a par with installing Windows updates. Nice.
To me safety-critical software is about more than just fear for my own ass: it's been of concern for many years. I started out as a Forth programmer, at a time when that language was widely used in embedded control systems, and attended conferences on the subject of safety in both software and hardware architecture. Then I graduated, via Pascal and Modula-2, to becoming an admirer of Nikolaus Wirth's ideas on good programming practice, and finally on to object-oriented programming as the way to wrest control over the structure of really large programs. Object-orientation is now of course the rule, supported by every language from Javascript to Scratch, but I sometimes wonder whether it still means anything very much, or has it become a mere style to which lip-service is paid. Loading critical data from unreliable external files violates the principles of encapsulation in more ways than I can count.
I did a bit of Googling and found lots of papers about safety-critical architectures and redundant hardware systems. Redundancy is a key safety concept: you build three separate computers, with CPUs from different manufacturers running different software written by different teams - which have been demonstrated to produce the same outputs from the same inputs - then go with the majority verdict, the idea being that the *same* software or hardware bug is very, very unlikely to arise in all three. Interestingly enough, the latest of these papers seemed to be dated around 2008.
Surely it can't be that, as in so many other spheres (like, say, banking) the optimists have taken over the farm and started trusting too much? Then I stumbled across NASA's 10 rules for developing safety critical code. Now NASA tends to work with computer hardware that's several decades behind state-of-the-art but - give or take a Hubble or two - it's had fairly few disasters that were down to software. Here are its rules, severely abbreviated by me:
1: All code to have simple control flow constructs: no GOTO, direct or indirect recursion.
2: All loops to have a fixed upper bound, which can be statically proved never to be exceeded.
3: No dynamic memory allocation after initialization.
4: No function longer than 60 lines of code.
5: The assertion density of the code to average a minimum of two assertions per function.
6: Data objects must be declared at the smallest possible level of scope.
7: Calling functions must check non-void function return values and the validity of all parameters.
8: Preprocessor to be restricted to headers and simple macros. Token pasting, variable argument lists (ellipses) and recursive macro calls all forbidden.
9: Pointers to be restricted to one level of dereferencing, which mustn't be hidden inside macros or typedefs. Function pointers forbidden.
10: All code must be compiled with all warnings enabled at their most pedantic setting. All code must compile at these settings without any warnings. All code to be checked daily with at least one — preferably several — state-of-the-art static source code analyzer, and pass with zero warnings.
These rules are, realistically enough, aimed at plain old C programmers, not at trendy new languages, but they impose a degree of rigour comparable to most object-oriented languages. Their recommended heavy use of Assertions is interesting. Assertions are supported directly in Eiffel, Ada and some other languages, and can be added to C via the header "assert.h". They can specify the desired value range of some variable at some point in program execution and raise a runtime error when not met: an example might be "assert( TorqueCalibrationParameter > 0)".
Perhaps you were as disturbed as I was by that report, back in May, that a US hacker travelling on a Boeing airliner claimed to have penetrate its flight control system via the entertainment system's Wi-Fi, and made the plane climb and turn from his laptop. Aviation experts have since rubbished his claim (but then Mandy Rice Davies would definitely apply). It did however concentrate my mind, in a most unwelcome fashion, on the fact that all the planes we fly in nowadays employ fly-by-wire under software-control, and that my confidence in software engineers falls some way short of my confidence in mechanical engineers.
This nagging anxiety was rubbed in further by the fatal crash of a military Airbus A400M in July, after its engine control software shut down three of its four engines just after take-off. It appears that accidental erasure of some config files during installation had deprived the software of certain torque calibration parameters that it needed to monitor engine power. These (literally) vital numbers were being loaded from an external file, so in other words the safety of this aircraft was being governed by a programming practice on a par with installing Windows updates. Nice.
To me safety-critical software is about more than just fear for my own ass: it's been of concern for many years. I started out as a Forth programmer, at a time when that language was widely used in embedded control systems, and attended conferences on the subject of safety in both software and hardware architecture. Then I graduated, via Pascal and Modula-2, to becoming an admirer of Nikolaus Wirth's ideas on good programming practice, and finally on to object-oriented programming as the way to wrest control over the structure of really large programs. Object-orientation is now of course the rule, supported by every language from Javascript to Scratch, but I sometimes wonder whether it still means anything very much, or has it become a mere style to which lip-service is paid. Loading critical data from unreliable external files violates the principles of encapsulation in more ways than I can count.
I did a bit of Googling and found lots of papers about safety-critical architectures and redundant hardware systems. Redundancy is a key safety concept: you build three separate computers, with CPUs from different manufacturers running different software written by different teams - which have been demonstrated to produce the same outputs from the same inputs - then go with the majority verdict, the idea being that the *same* software or hardware bug is very, very unlikely to arise in all three. Interestingly enough, the latest of these papers seemed to be dated around 2008.
Surely it can't be that, as in so many other spheres (like, say, banking) the optimists have taken over the farm and started trusting too much? Then I stumbled across NASA's 10 rules for developing safety critical code. Now NASA tends to work with computer hardware that's several decades behind state-of-the-art but - give or take a Hubble or two - it's had fairly few disasters that were down to software. Here are its rules, severely abbreviated by me:
1: All code to have simple control flow constructs: no GOTO, direct or indirect recursion.
2: All loops to have a fixed upper bound, which can be statically proved never to be exceeded.
3: No dynamic memory allocation after initialization.
4: No function longer than 60 lines of code.
5: The assertion density of the code to average a minimum of two assertions per function.
6: Data objects must be declared at the smallest possible level of scope.
7: Calling functions must check non-void function return values and the validity of all parameters.
8: Preprocessor to be restricted to headers and simple macros. Token pasting, variable argument lists (ellipses) and recursive macro calls all forbidden.
9: Pointers to be restricted to one level of dereferencing, which mustn't be hidden inside macros or typedefs. Function pointers forbidden.
10: All code must be compiled with all warnings enabled at their most pedantic setting. All code must compile at these settings without any warnings. All code to be checked daily with at least one — preferably several — state-of-the-art static source code analyzer, and pass with zero warnings.
These rules are, realistically enough, aimed at plain old C programmers, not at trendy new languages, but they impose a degree of rigour comparable to most object-oriented languages. Their recommended heavy use of Assertions is interesting. Assertions are supported directly in Eiffel, Ada and some other languages, and can be added to C via the header "assert.h". They can specify the desired value range of some variable at some point in program execution and raise a runtime error when not met: an example might be "assert( TorqueCalibrationParameter > 0)".
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