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Chapter 148: The problem with people who talk about Software Patents

Most software patent discussions on Slashdot, Reddit or elsewhere on the Internet infuriate me. They infuriate me because, in my opinion, they fundamentally confuse the issues relating to whether software should be patentable.

1. “Software shouldn’t be patentable because it’s obvious.”

You’re talking about multiple legal concepts as if they were one thing. There are many tests for patentability, the main three being Statutory Patentability, Novelty, and Non-Obviousness.

  • Statutory Patentability (35 USC 101). You can’t patent a bunch of things as a general rule, such as literary works, laws of nature, compositions of music, compilations of data, legal documents, insurance policies, forms of energy, signals, etc. This has always been fuzzy and confusing, especially as applied to software.

  • Novelty (35 USC 102). You can’t patent something that someone already invented or wrote about several years before.

  • Non-Obviousness (35 USC 103). You can’t patent something that, regardless of whether or not it has been done before, would have been obvious to a person having ordinary skill in the art.

The argument “Software shouldn’t be patentable because it’s obvious” annoys me because it implies that software shouldn’t be statutorily patentable because most software is obvious. Obvious things are already unpatentable. Your beef with software patents might be better described as “I disagree with the standard of obviousness applied by the Patent Office or the effectiveness with which the Patent Office makes its determinations of obviousness”.

2. “Software is math, and math shouldn’t be patentable. Hardware devices are different and should still be patentable.”

Hardware and software are logically equivalent, and should be patentable or not-patentable together. Hardware is compiled. Software is compiled into hardware. Take any algorithm implemented in software and you can create a hardware device that implements the algorithm. Take any algorithm implemented in hardware and you can create a software simulation that implements the hardware device on a functional level. There are valid reasons to implement a theoretical component in strict hardware (it might run faster and need less general purpose functionality) and also in strict software running on a general purpose micro-controller (it makes it easier to extend and change the functionality), but that’s a design tradeoff, not an indication that the two things are fundamentally and irreparably different.

How is the inventiveness required for hardware different than the inventiveness required for software? Even if you cannot move beyond the “software is math” angle, on a philosophical level it is arguable that math itself is invented (pdf). Laws of nature are not patentable, but practical applications of them are, which is analogous to software being a practical application of math.

3. “Software patents would patent the general algorithm, but a hardware patent would patent only the specific device.”

Not true at all. Patents are monopolies on generalities. Sure, you can phrase your generality in such a way that it only covers a specific device, but the overwhelming majority of patents don’t do that. They want a patent on the idea of something. That’s actually the whole idea of the patent system; it lets you protect an idea that you had, whether that idea is related to microprocessor design or a method of providing goods at a maximum price.

If you don’t like the thought of protecting an idea, you don’t have a problem with software patents, you have a problem with all patents. The overwhelming majority of arguments against software patents apply equally to every other type of patent.

In summary

Software is just as patentable as everything else. Software is invented. We get patents on inventions. If you disagree with that, then make the argument that patents are bad in general. The patentability of ideas is a policy decision. I’m fine with the argument that patents are bad, I think it’s a great argument and can be readily supported by examples from many industries. Just don’t say software is somehow special. It’s not.


The above discussion is my opinion and does not reflect the policies or opinions of anyone else, regardless of however much I wish otherwise.

2009 10 03 Sam Chapters Comments (0) Permalink

Chapter 147: The City in the Desert

Burning Man aerial

… a Burning Man 2009 travelogue …

Down a wandering road in northwestern Nevada there is a place that doesn’t have many things. Sure, it has sky and ground, but you might be struck by an absence of things most of us consider ubiquitous, such as people, trees, plants, animals, rivers, lakes or even the occasional puddle. There isn’t even much of a change in elevation; it’s a vast, completely flat expanse that is mostly devoid even of color. This place, the one that is absent most things, is called the Black Rock Desert. The ancient lakebed, also called the playa, stretches between mountains, the stunning remnants of a lake that has been dry for tens of thousands of years.

Once a year this place is not absent of things. Once a year this place teams with life and activity. Once a year this is the place where they Burn the Man.

Five of us boarded airplanes and flew thousands of miles to Salt Lake City, where we packed an SUV past its breaking point to drive further into the desert. We took roads that were smaller and smaller until we left roads entirely and were driving on the lakebed itself. We drove to the entrance of Black Rock City, which at night appeared as a glimmering mecca of light on the horizon. We got out of our car to receive hugs, have playa dust thrown in our hair and, in a place none of us had ever been, to be greeted with the phrase “Welcome home.”

Fifty thousand people had arranged themselves neatly into a circular grid two miles across. Thousands upon thousands of tents, RVs, trailers, trucks and tarps covered the playa for as far as you could see. People dressed in every type of garb imaginable wandered the streets at every hour of the day: hippies, steam-punks, ravers, topless girls, squares, shirtcocks (men wearing only shirts). And then there were the vehicles.

Burning Man camp

Five thousand bikes and hundreds of modified art cars were made to look like dragons, boats, castles, beasts, nightmares, faces, anything and everything imaginable. All combined to a swirling cacophony of motion and costume, with fire breathing pirate ships swerving between naked women on bikes, surrounded by hapless wanderers trying to keep a raging dust storm out of their lungs. You could ride on most of the art cars and the occasional topless woman if you asked kindly enough.

There is no money at Burning Man. At first this sounds outright preposterous, then later it sounds fairly preposterous, and to this day it still sounds slightly preposterous. The economy on the playa is based on two thoughts: self-reliance and gifting. You must be prepared to survive on your own. This involves bringing your own water, food, shade, clothing, medical supplies, beer, drugs, books, topless women to ride, etc. That being said, if someone happens to find themselves with a surplus of any of these items, they might happily gift them out to the needy or whoever else happens to wander by. As but one example, we drank ourselves silly through the generosity of a bar named “Oasis” that was a block from our tent, where they happily gave out liquor at any hour of the night in exchange for a story or two.

Some people come to Burning Man for the party. Thousands of people drink, take drugs and dance at all hours of the day for a week straight. Ravers, shroomers, straight edge, drunks, you name it, some part of the playa will cater to your vision of a good time. Armin van Buuren played one night. There was a rumor Daft Punk was there. Just taking a walk was a sensory overload.

Burning Man bonfire

Some people come to Burning Man for the artful weirdness. The art that’s strewn about the playa is larger than life, and wandering across the desert to discover giant cast iron sculptures bends the mind in directions not easily replicated. The art cars are roving exhibits with speakers, blasting psi-trance and weirdness into the eyes and ears of everyone.

Some people come to Burning Man for the community. People arrive year after year and congregate into camps with elaborate layouts, themes, names and histories. Stories and legends are born and embellished, die and are resurrected, sometimes among people that only ever see each other on the windswept playa.

Everything builds up to the Burning of the Man. At the center of Black Rock City, the center of the universe, stands a 40 foot tall effigy, constructed on a large wooden platform and surrounded by wooden sculptures. At night he glows with neon. On the the second to last night he is set on fire. Everyone in the city comes out to watch. We sat in a circle cheering and screaming for the Man to Burn Burn Burn, until he burn burn burned with fireworks shooting out of his arms and body, and the large wooden platform beneath him burn burn burned, and then the wooden sculptures around him burn burn burned, and tens of thousands of us scream scream screamed. It was euphoric.

I came to Burning Man expecting to find weirdness, insanity and hippies at every turn. What I found was an instant connection to a community, a fantastic landscape filled with fellow refugees from reality. Burning Man was connectedness. Burning Man was camaraderie. Burning Man was a fantastic time.

2009 09 24 Sam Chapters Comments (3) Permalink

Chapter 146: Learning Predicate Logic with Slim Thug

Outward appearances aside, Houston rapper Slim Thug and I have somewhat of a shared history. We both hail from the great state of Texas. We both know our way around the section in the club nominally reserved for Very Important Persons. And, though ours may occasionally be rough exteriors for the purposes of intimidating ‘haters’, we both have a special fondness for speaking deliberately.

SlimThug

Slim Thug lays it out for us on his 2005 song ‘Like A Boss‘:

I call shots – like a boss
Stack knots – like a boss
Cop drops – like a boss
On top – like a boss
Paid Tha Cost – like Tha Bo$$
When I floss – like a boss
Big house – like a boss
Rep the North – like a boss
Who the boss nigga?! Who the motherfucking boss?!
Who the boss nigga?! Who the motherfucking boss?!
Who the boss nigga?! Who the motherfucking boss?!
Who the boss nigga?! You see the motherfucking boss!!

Much in the same way I’m concerned about my advancement in my career of choice, Mr Thug appears concerned with establishing or qualifying his position as ‘The Boss’. In defense of his presumed desire to be a boss, he delineates his list of qualifications, such as the facts that he Calls Shots, Stacks Knots, Drops Cops (I assume that he caused the Cop to Drop), is On Top, etc. This allows us to determine that a boss, any boss, would call shots, stack knots, etc. We can represent these formally using First Order Logic as follows:

In English, this means that for every person, if they’re a boss, then they necessarily call shots, stack knots, etc. However, it is not the case that Slim is known to be the boss, merely that Mr Thug is known to call shots, stack knots, drop cops and to be on top. Unfortunately for Mr Thug, the definition of the material conditional tells us that calling shots and stacking knots are necessary but not sufficient conditions to be considered the boss.

That is, if you don’t call shots or stack knots, etc, then you’re not a boss. Mr Thug knows he’s not by logical definition the boss, but he also knows that he’s not logically precluded from being the boss either. This situation appears to present him with some moderate apprehension (“Who the motherfucking boss?!”). Finally, Mr Thug reminds us that this hypothetical boss is no myth; rather, he exists, and more specifically, I can see him (“You see the motherfucking boss!!”). In English, this can be translated as saying that there exists at least one person with the quality of being a boss. Again, using First Order Logic:

Is Slim Thug the boss? Am I the boss? In Mr Thug’s case, we may never know for sure. Unfortunately, due to the fact that I have never actually killed a police officer, I know that I am, for the time being (per the first equation above), logically precluded from being The Boss.

Previous in the series: Learning Mathematics with R. Kelly
2009 08 02 Sam Chapters Comments (4) Permalink

Chapter 145: Live by the sword, Die by the sword

Once, a very long time ago, a follower of Jesus drew a sword in order to defend his prophet against the Romans, only to be summarily rebuked.

Then said Jesus unto him, Put up again thy sword into his place: for all they that take the sword shall perish with the sword.
Book of Matthew, verse 26:52

Jesus was no sissy; he knew to live a life of violence meant dying at the hands of violence. He also knew that to live the life of a prophet meant dying the death of a prophet. But sometimes that’s what must be done. To “Live by the sword and Die by the sword” doesn’t necessarily need to be in a morbid sense. Rather, it merely reflects the occasional truth that our choices in life often directly affect our destiny.

I got sick my last week in India. It only lasted a couple of days, but it wasn’t pretty, and over the course of the following week I lost 5-10 lbs. Much of the worst of it was spent within 20 feet of a bathroom, watching Hindi music videos on a small, barely functioning television. I don’t know specifically what caused it, but I wouldn’t have changed any of my habits.

I ate and drank whatever I felt like the entire time I was in India, and it was the sweetest thing in the world. The cost of that sickness was worth it. We ate food on trains, from street vendors, ate pastries from generous hosts, drank chai with taxi-wallahs and milk coffee with businessmen. For 7 weeks, I ran around the sub-continent as if my stomach were invincible. If I was constantly scared about getting sick, I would have had to limit myself to a tiny subset of what I ended up experiencing. I would have paid more money for much more boring food. For me, the pain of those two days of being holed up in Varanasi was paid for a thousand times over by the pleasure of being free.

Our choices in life affect our outcomes, and my choices about what I ate in India directly affected my digestive system. I made that choice, and I don’t regret it.

But India was not why I was reminded of this proverb. I was reminded of this proverb because of the occasional intellectual agony my job puts me through when I actually have to sit down and do it.

It would be easy to complain about how much I’ve worked in these last two weeks, or even how much I’ve worked in the last 24 hours. My travel based, free form lifestyle let’s me do whatever I want the grand majority of the time, and in exchange I pay a pound of flesh roughly every 2-3 months.

Live by the flexible work schedule, die by the flexible work schedule. If that’s the price, I pay it gladly.

2009 07 19 Sam Chapters Comments (0) Permalink

Chapter 144: This gun is not for me

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Paharganj, New Delhi

Delhi was where I started my trip in India, and, in one way or another, it’s where my trip would end.

I was staying in a small, haphazardly built guest house in Connaught Place, a big busy double sided ring of posh shops lining a large traffic circle with a park in the middle. I had found the guest house nestled in the inner ring, where the other shops had their back entrances and all the fake tourist information offices ran their scams. The guest house’s little twisting staircases and overgrown vegetation on the rooftop patio made it feel like a treehouse, out of place in the grimy and mercantile streets. I told myself I bought the room because of price, but it was really because of the treehouse.

At the end of a long day, I was walking back to my room when I heard someone shouting. I turned to my left to find five men standing on one side of the street. One of them was gesturing wildly at me to come over, and had clearly seen me turn to look. They were all well dressed, wearing designer jeans and nice jackets. Against my better judgment, I walked over to their side of the street.

“Hey maaaan, where you from?” The one who had gestured over was tall and slightly intoxicated.

“The US. I’m an American.”

His eyes narrowed, his body straightened slightly, and said, “An American? No offense, but I fucking hate Americans. You smoke?”

He offered me a cigarette. I took it, and we both lit up. It wasn’t the time to pass on a kind gesture.

“Americans man, they fucking suck. You know what I hate about Americans? Somebody comes to India they’re treated like fucking guests, man, because they’re in our country. And what happens when I go to America? When I go to New York on business? I’m treated like a fucking terrorist. Like I’ve got a fucking bomb?”

The four other men standing with us weren’t involved in the conversation. They seemed preoccupied with the street in either direction. I gave a quick glance to see what they were looking at, but the street was mostly empty. Otherwise, my attention was focused solely on the philosopher. I tried changing the topic.

“So, what kind of business takes you to New York?”

He paused to look at me, took a drag on his cigarette, then looked down the street with the rest of them. “You know, man, … business.”

It’s at this moment that my gaze shifted to the man standing to the philosopher’s left. In the last gasp of dusk, I noticed a medium sized handgun stuffed into the back of his jeans, mostly hidden by his jacket.

My mind immediately went in several directions. The first was my emotional reaction to seeing a gun, any gun, in any situation. The second was the inevitable logical response.

One. You don’t need a handgun to take money from a tourist, as a clever lie is often more than enough. Two. As deserted as this alley might be, there are still tons of people around, including cars and taxis. Three. I’m as white as a snowy day compared to these people, and conservatively 1/4 of the people on the street are staring at me at any given time. Four. The philosopher was somewhat drunk, and everyone else seemed bored. These four things combined in my head to one simple, calm conclusion.

This gun is not for me.

The philosopher was still talking about New York, telling a story about someone who called him a “sand-nigger”. Intensely aware of everyone and everything around me, I found myself agreeing that George Bush and the man who called him a sand-nigger were both “ugly fucking Americans.”

A car pulled up next to us and four men got out. One man started eyeing me up and down, introduced himself and shook my hand. He asked the philosopher a question in Hindi, and seemed calmed by the short response. I was by myself, in a foreign country, in a back alley talking to a drunk man who “fucking hates Americans” while standing next to his handgun toting friends. I decided it was time to go.

“Hey man, I’ve got to get going, it’s past my bedtime. Thanks for the cigarette.”

“Any time, man, take it easy.”

We shook hands, I glanced at the man who had the gun, found him staring straight back at me, I turned my back and calmly walked away.

2009 06 10 Sam Chapters Comments (3) Permalink