Ella AI

Boston is one of the few big cities that has managed to maintain its essence as Ye.  Olde.  Village. This is especially true when it snows, turning those really, really narrow side streets into magical paths that are just begging you to don a scarf and stroll them with some serious hot chocolate in hand.

That was the scene I woke up to on business one Sunday morning.  I’m sorry to say my pragmatic side took me on a different trip, since the snow led me to wonder if my flight home would be affected.  I dialed Delta—a number that, for better or worse, I knew by heart—only to discover most of customer service doesn’t work on Sunday, but a computer does.

As I listened to the latest iteration of Hal go through the preprogrammed options, I knew no number I could press would give me the information I needed.  I also knew Delta, in their infinite wisdom, didn’t have a number to press if you wanted to talk to, you know, a real person.  What to do?

I was alone in my hotel room, but a voice from the heavens came out of nowhere, more than appropriate for a Sunday morning.

“Channel your inner Ella.”

I completely understood this cryptic gospel.  I only knew one Ella, and as Delta Dawn went through the litany of options that wouldn’t help me, I did my best imitation of Ella Fitzgerald’s improvised scat of How High the Moon into the phone.

It was clear the computer was impressed, since it went silent.  I have to say, I was pretty impressed too.  Never knew I had it in me.

The behemoth of megabytes regained its composure, and said “Sorry, I didn’t get that.”

No?  Hey, now that I know I can do it once, an encore is no problem.

“Dwap boop got boop jha scooldle la be wah”.

Another moment of nothing, then another request to try again.

The third time proved to be the charm, since the silence was particularly long. “Sounds like you need to talk to an agent.  Just a moment.”

I envisioned some automated dialing device phoning some poor Delta agent in Oklahoma City, taking them away from their Sunday waffles, all while they were still in their bathrobe.  They answered my question and my flight left on time, only leaving me regretting I didn’t have time for real clam chowder.

The world of AI has since really ramped up the number and depth of conversations we are having with pretend people— and those aren’t to be confused with the pretend conversations we have with real people, which is an issue for another day.  Thanks to updated technology, it’s not even easy to know you’re talking to a computer, until you ask them something they aren’t trained to answer–so they answer a question they know the answer to instead.  Kind of like people at a cocktail party, or every politician on the planet.

Despite all the advances, I’m pleased to say the Ella approach still works.  I have sung my brains out to the power company, a credit card help line, and more, all with one basic goal: once the computer thinks I am too stupid to talk to a computer, it will hand me off to a person.  I’m a pretty bright guy, but I’m willing to let a computer think I’m dumb to get what I called for in the first place.

That makes me smarter than the computer, and leaves me with a feeling as high as the moon.

Doo wa.

Boston Chowder

The bacon really makes it
But the potatoes must be small
And the roux thick.
I had one once
With tarragon, I think.
What a great idea.

I asked locals
For a place with wicked smaht fare.
They each gave me the name of the same chain.
Devastated
I took comfort in the undersea soup offering
At the Boston Marriott.
I nearly married the chef.

Is that more about
My crude tastebuds
Or more about the hyping
Of local cuisine?

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