Hmmm…


Named Cyclone?

I just renewed the insurance on my house in Sydney and I noticed this interesting phrasing in the questions I’m required to address for the insurer. Named cyclone? I guess I’m OK if I get hit by an unnamed one then… And what about the poor earthquakes & hailstorms. Surely they should get names?

Everyone singing

Away out west they got a name
For wind and rain and fire
The rain is Tess, the fire is Joe…

I declare a competition! A prize for the best fire, hailstorm and earthquake names!

Microsoft, in their desperation to get the drop on Apple’s ability to spin gold out of new gadgetry innovation, are frantically searching for something, anything, in an effort to increase their cool factor. They are not good at this. Maybe you remember Zune? Or The Surface? Well, Zune was just a case of imitation I guess, but it doesn’t take a genius to see that no-one aside from Tom Cruise is going think that a table is a better interface for a computer than it is a thing to stop your coffee falling on the floor.

Mr Gates’ wizards’ latest Next Big Thing is called MySong*

Here, let the Ian Simon, Dan Morris and Sumit Basu, the brains behind MySong at their lab at Microsoft Research, tell you all about it:

MySong automatically chooses chords to accompany a vocal melody, allowing a user with no musical training to rapidly create accompanied music. MySong is a creative tool for folks who like to sing but would never get a chance to experiment with creating real original music.

OK, so that’s a big ask: you sing, MySong plays along. If someone told me that some software dudes had accomplished that feat, I’d be mighty impressed. But, you guessed it – in the manner of most things Microsoft, it kinda sorta of works. Only kinda sorta. That might be sufferable† when it’s software that deals with word-processing or spreadsheets or operating systems, but when it comes to music, ‘kinda-sorta’ is nothing short of disastrous.

Check out this video tour of the features of MySong, including someone using it to make an accompaniment for her rendition of The Way You Look Tonight.

Old Blue Eyes she ain’t. And that’s part of the reason that MySong is destined to be a Surface-class turkey. The inventors of MySong continue with their spruik:

Come on, you know who you are… you sing in the car, or in the shower, or you go to karaoke clubs, or you just once in a while find yourself singing along with catchy commercial jingles.

Yes. Apparently, this invention is being pitched at people who can’t sing, and who, very sensibly, restrict their efforts to places where no-one else can hear them. In the YouTube example above, the woman crooner dishes out an out-of-tune vocal line, and MySong responds by providing a suitably toneless accompaniment. Perfect! But what the hell are you going to do with that??? My brain just makes little fizzing noises when I try to work out whether the Microsoft thinktank has actually thought this one through.

Let’s just do a bit of psychological reverse engineering. If someone is an average-to-bad singer, what’s the thing that they’d really like to see in a piece of software of this kind? I’d guess it’d be something that made them sound like Frank, or Dean, or Celine, or Aretha or maybe even Elvis, swinging onstage to the beat of a thirty-piece Big Band – something they could play around to their friends and say ‘Hey, this is me! I could be doing Vegas!’

Instead, with MySong they end up with a terrible recording of their out-of-tune moaning backed with clunky tuneless noodling on synthetic instruments that they would only dare play in the shower or in the car. Sum advance: zero.‡ Or possibly negative, if you factor in psychological damage.

True enough, it’s only early days for MySong, and maybe it might turn into something one day. But hey Bill, here’s a tip: when your boffins come to you with this kind of project, you ask them if it’s Vegas-worthy. If they say no, send ’em back to their cubicle. For God’s sake don’t let them go public with it!

Persevere through the YouTube vid if you can, faithful Acowlytes. It has some real clunkers. For example, here’s a screen shot of some of the controls you can set on MySong:

MySong is Jazzy & Happy

Man oh man. In a Microsoft Music World there’d be a button for everything. Happy, jazzy, jivey, jolly! No thinking required!

But here’s a how it should really be:

MySong is actually crappy

I’m sure the technical feat that Messrs Simon, Morris & Basu have accomplished is of some magnitude, but all their toil amounts to further fuel for the fire of what I shall now call The Reverend’s Rule: Just because you can get a computer to do something, doesn’t necessarily mean that you should.

ADDENDUM: In a curious piece of synchronicity, the dudes at Celemony, the genii behind the awesome pitch tracking/correction software Melodyne, have announced their new software Direct Note Access. To explain briefly: Melodyne allowed you to take a musical recording of a single monophonic instrument – a violin, or a trumpet, or a voice, for instance – and gain control over every note, so that you could pitch correct errors, or even create harmony melodies by arranging the first recording as a second part. Now, DNA allows you to do the same thing with polyphonic recordings. That is, you can take a recording of a guitar strumming chords, and then unravel the recording to gain control over each individual note of the chord. It is nothing short of astonishing. Check it out.

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*Apple’s insistence on calling all its products “i” something is irritating enough, but Microsoft’s ‘My’ prefix is so pathetic as to be almost a cry for help. I wonder what Freud would make about this all blatant ego-technocentricity? Aside from anything else, aren’t they just plain embarrassed to be so obviously unoriginal?

†Although, quite honestly, I really don’t know how anyone can put up with the clunky retarded piece of techno-obfuscation that is Windows. Having to recently field a number of Windows ‘issues’ for Violet Towne, I am completely convinced that the only reason it exists is some kind of plot to keep IT nerds employed.

‡Well, zero for punter, $$$ for Microsoft. Hmmm. I guess that wouldn’t be the first time they’ve palmed off something of useless utility onto someone who didn’t actually want it.

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Violet Towne and I were in inner city Melbourne this week when we were accosted by person who might be these days termed ‘height-challenged’ but in the time of my less politically correct childhood would gave been called a dwarf.

Personally, I can’t see much of a problem with the term ‘dwarf’. Before Lord of the Rings the logical cultural link anyone was likely to make with that term was with the happy chaps that whistled while they worked, made squillions from their diamond mine and were shacked up with a spunky chick. When I was a teenager hanging out in the theatre, we had a chap who fit that image perfectly. Well, if you included a fondness for sherry and imagined the local newspaper packing room was a diamond mine. In any event, he certainly hit it off well with the young ladies…

But I digress.

The short fellow who confronted us in town seemed a little agitated and with little preamble reeled off a story about his wallet having been stolen and how he was going to have to make phone calls to cancel all his credit cards and how he needed some money to get a train to his home in the Dandenong Ranges (an area just on the outskirts of Melbourne).

Now, as cynical as you all know me to be, I am still inclined at first flush to cut people the benefit of the doubt. I gave the guy a bill. Not enough for his train fare all the way, but I thought it would help him out. It has to be said: he snaffled the cash without so much as a backward glance and was on his way.

Violet Towne, who is possibly a little more street savvy than I am, wasn’t about to part with any of her hard-earned change for someone she pegged pretty quickly as a pan-handler (I noticed that she kept a tight grip on her purse as the exchange took place). Reflecting on it as the little man zipped off into the crowd, I couldn’t help but agree with her; it did seem fairly likely that Shorty had peddled that particular story more than once.

“Oh well,” I said, “I guess if he feels compelled to ask people for a handout he’s somewhat worse off than we are.”

The following morning this text conversation takes place between me & VT:

VT (on her way to work on the train): Hey! The dwarf just got on the train! He’s dressed in a suit!

Reverend: See! I was right!

VT: But he got on at Heatherdale. That’s a long way from Dandenongs.

Reverend: Whaddya expect? You were too mean to give him the extra he needed to get home.

The jury will probably remain forever out on the truth of the matter, but I figure that this is a Christmas Parable that can be read in whichever way you are inclined to view the Season.

(And Find Out Something You Didn’t Already Know In The Process)

We’ve played this game before, but it continues to amuse me. What do the following images have in common?

A picture of the great astronomical clock of Besançon.

A picture of Hampstead Heath.

A map showing the location of Weldon Spring Heights, Missouri.

A Picture of David Essex.

An odd sepia picture of a thin Santa.

That’s right – they are all pictures from the first page retrieved by Google Images on a search of the digits that make up my birthday. Try it – it’s fun! Go to Google Images and enter your birth date as six figures*: ddmmyy (or mmddyy if you are an illogical American). Pick any five pictures from the first page of results only. Then post them somewhere we can see! Hey. That sounds like a meme! Maybe I can start one. OK, I tag:

•Sara Sue
•jedimacfan
•Cissy Strutt
•Phoebe Fay
•Tequila Mockingbird

Post links back here in the Comments. Tag someone else and let’s see if we can start an internet phenomenon. Be sure to tell them that The Cow sent you!

Play if you want. It will affect the universe in no way if you don’t.†

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*Six figures seems, intriguingly, to be the optimum number to return the most unrelated bunches of images, but still get a reasonable number of hits. Fewer numbers result in too many images that are related in some way, and more numbers return a reduced field of possibilities. I’d love to know the maths behind this…

†Actually, it may affect the universe in profound ways. There is really no way of telling.

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Are You Man Enough

My recent post of the pic of the loving couple wearing trakky daks reminded Pil of this marvellous contribution to advertising art that she’s been keeping from me for all this time. Be sure to click on the image to get a more detailed view.

I have little to say that improves in any way on the copy, which I reproduce here for your enjoyment:

One Easy Piece.

Because one is enough, when it’s you. Show where you’re headed in the ultimate fashion climax.

Fits so tight it shows all you’ve got… you’re a walking turn-on. And treats your body as well as she does.

Easy on, easy off, quick as a flick of her tongue. Sexy cool crinkle cloth for those hot nights to come. Designed with your desires in mind… she’ll eat you alive in it.

The Big Zip in 50% polyester/50% cotton. Long-sleeved in rust, blue or black. Short-sleeved in natural, blue or camel.

Are you man enough to fill it?

$45.

I can only voice my regret that they didn’t show the guy sporting the short-sleeved version in camel.

Gideon Sundback, we salute you!.

A certain friend of mine, let’s call her Alice, has been having some work done on her house. Last week a tradesman asked her why such an attractive and vivacious woman didn’t have a partner.

I said to Alice “Well, that was a bit flirty!”

“No, I don’t think so,” said Alice, “It was just a nice caring comment.”

Later in the conversation Alice revealed that the tradesman (a visiting tradesman, not a friend or colleague…) had also asked her for a hug.

“Oh really?” said I. “And that’s not flirting?”

“It was just a nice caring hug.”

Even later in the conversation Alice revealed that the tradesman had given her another hug.

“O-k-a-a-a-y…”

This morning Alice said to me in an email: “To add to the conjecture as to ‘flirting’ or ‘caring’, I’m still thinking he was ‘caring’.”

So I told Alice I would pass the matter over to the wisdom of the Cow readers for comment.

Flirting or Caring? Let the Hive Mind of The Cow decide!

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