by  Denis Collette…!!! 

Well, isaokato.com stays but the underlying platform has changed. The previous version was based on Typepad and the new version is based on WordPress, the most robust blogging platform in the market (and it’s free). In the eyes of the PC-era, the two platforms offer the same functionality. But when you browse them using your smartphone, you can see the difference. WordPress websites automatically reformats its appearance according to the browsing media: laptop, iPad, iPhone. Typepad websites don’t.

Typepad was the creation of creators: Ben and Mena Trott, the godfathers of blogging (in my eyes). The reason I jumped on the Typepad wagon back in the early 2000s was: (1) It offered an easy blogging solution for laymen—no self-hosting, no complicated programming, nada. (2) It offered an opportunity to financially contribute to the people who gave you an indispensable tool—for free (Movable Type blogging platform).

Time flies: now there are plenty of blogging platforms around (WordPress, Blogger, Tumblr, and Facebook/Twitter in a broader sense). Typepad was acquired by an advertising company. I lost my two reasons to stick with Typepad. On top of that, Typepad did little (in my eyes) to catch up with the rest of the world. Loading a page was slow and usability sucked when accessed from smartphones. I tried everything I could to fix whatever was broken: installing widgets, external SEO help, and good old complaints. I searched online to get hints from people having similar issues with Typepad, and got a brilliant solution: ditch it.

Although moving a blog hosting site sounds simple in theory, it actually can be a nightmare. Well, in today’s entrepreneurial society, there are always people who turn a crisis into an opportunity. A company called Foliovision offers a one-stop-shopping transfer package from Typepad to WordPress. It turned out to be one of the few successful impulse shopping in my life. Foliovision’s team did not just transfer texts—they kept the images, comments, and most importantly, the paths to that all previous posts would remain alive.

So here I am, in the new WordPress platform. It works great—there is a reason why TechCrunch is based on this platform—and I will be writing here. Thank you, Typepad. Welcome, WordPress.

P.S. By the way, if you are looking for a really, really easy blogging platform, Tumblr should be your solution. I put short pieces of quotes, videos, and news clips in my Tumblr account.

Update: I have consolidated everything into a self-hosted WordPress.org website. isaokato.com remains alive, and all other blog accounts, including Tumblr, will be canceled or will not be updated anymore.

  by  darwin.wins 

I have been using Amazon Kindle for a few years, and it has completely removed my need/desire/wish for paper books. I am a bookworm, and it was surprising that I could ditch a 30+ year-old habit in mere several months. But my eyeballs say reading e-ink is no different than following paper ink, and my fingertips say pressing a button is as comfortable as turning a page. You can’t win an argument against your body.

The same transformation occurred in my book purchasing habit. Nobody can beat online bookstores when it comes to the search function. No more wasted time by getting lost in the aisles or looking through the covers. All I have to do is search, click, read.

Looks like paper book is a dying genre. But then, how come I am still visiting bookstores at least once a month? I walk along the shelves and enjoy the changing patterns of colors, titles, people. The peripheral vision does a great job here; once in a while, books that I have never previously considered jump into my eyes—and give me a love-at-first-sight experience. Wandering inside a bookstore gives me both comfort and surprise, just like a great soccer match provides the audience with calculated miracles. I want serendipity; that’s why I still visit bookstores.

Amazon smartly suggests books I might like, based on my past browsing patterns. But list of ebooks refine, rather than broaden, my focus. They overwhelm me, but do not persuade me. In other words, they give me what I know I want, but not what I don’t know that I want (Jeff Bezos, CEO of Amazon, is no Steve Jobs—yet). Bookstores with analog paper books are valuable precisely because of the reason we started to avoid them: most of the books are not what expect to read. Herein lies the way for bookstores to survive.

But there is another nasty reality. Even if I meet a fantastic book, I have no incentive to neither buy it in the bookstore nor read it in the paper format. Paper books are likely more expensive than ebooks, and paper takes space. The most logical action for me is to check the Kindle version (or even “Google” version) on the spot, and click it, using the bookstore as an agent—without a commission. The paper version comes into play only when a Kindle version is unavailable. Therefore, bookstores are attractive as galleries but not as shopping centers.

Here is my suggestion: bookstores can survive by making money out of the agent role. Probably they can increase the number of sofas and provide free wi-fi to encourage customers to browse as many books as they want. When a customer want to buy a paper version, no problem. And if he wants to buy the e-book version, he can do it from the bookstore’s wi-fi network, which automatically sends commission to the bookstore. I don’t see any problem here; bookstores have been functioning as commission-based agents from their beginning. Even when we buy paper books, most of our payment goes to the publisher anyhow. Why not apply the same model for ebooks? The only differences are our mindset and the lack of physical distribution.

We need bookstores. I need them. The question is, can they evolve fast enough?

  by  Joseph Robertson 

I hear there is no original creation any more in terms of artistic activities: Everything we do is a copy or reconstruction of something that already exists.. I don’t go so far to declare this to be always true, but I do acknowledge that 99% of what we do in the name of "creating" can also be called reorganizing.

 My writing might also fall under the reorganizing category. Sometimes I feel everything that has to be said has already been said (this happens on a daily basis during the winter season). But at the same time, I also feel every work has something new to offer the world as long as I remain true to my vision. Or I believe so—otherwise I won’t be motivated.

How do I succeed in convincing (or hypnotizing) myself that what I do is new, or at least unique? Judging from thousands of YouTube cat videos or zillions of Facebook dinner photos, I am not the only one who was born with this ability. Or it might be a universal attribute for the human race—for example, every newborn baby is the most beautiful person in the world in the parents’ eyes.

I have a hypothesis, which I've named "The Mirror Ball Effect" (©Isao) that might explain how we can repeat ourselves without boring ourselves, in the eyes of the higher presence (be it God or an alien or the deceased). Here it goes: The Ultimate Truth appears to us as a gigantic rotating mirror ball (as opposed to the number 42). That mirror ball is what we face when we engage in artistic or spiritual activities—the truth that lies at the bottom of our inner self (or at the top of our higher self).

The catch is the mirror ball, naturally, changes its appearance every time we look at it. The ultimate, unchanging truth might be the light bulb sitting inside the ball, but as imperfect human beings, rarely do we succeed in clarifying our skewed vision. First we must face the correct direction, and then we must see through layers of crap/dust that cloud our vision, which we've accumulated over our lives. Most of us can catch only the glimpse, or reflection, of what lies at the center: the mirror ball.

Therefore we end up chasing the elusive shadow, or glimpse, by repeating (almost) the same activity over and over, each time trying to do better (= become closer to the ultimate truth, the secret of the universe). We believe once we touch thehHoly Grail our journey is over; but at the same time, we secretly know (and hope) that day will never come. Maybe that’s fine—otherwise the world might be too boring a place to live.

P.S. The Mirror Ball Effect theory can also explain why we engage in bitter disputes about which religious view is right. I guess the truth is that everybody—Christians and Muslims and Buddhists and even atheists—is overall right, that we all see the same “thing,” because we are all watching the giant mirror ball. But because we are inherently defective, most of the time we end up being the blind men discussing endlessly what the elephant in the room is like, fussing over unimportant—and misleading—details. (I believe Buddhism is ahead in this race, but as soon as I declare that I am caught up in the web of ignorance and attachment, in Buddhist terms. Sigh.)

This "Canvus" business model is the future, isn't it? Everything is clear, simplified, and easy to act on.

Actually, no. This model does nothing to reduce the traditional structure of business. What it does, however, is making the business model LOOK simpler. The animation does contribute a lot by persuading users to watch (=read) the instructions, which is admittedly the hardest step. But converting a model into a video does not change What (the model is about); it changes How (the model is described).

As a technical writer I often hear discussions on 3D animations and multimedia as the future of our niche industry. But the point is that if the original description/procedure is complicated, changing it into a series of slides or animation does not help much.

Technical advances do not solve the original, low-tech problem—our thinking. Before investing into high-tech gadgets, we need to polish our analog computer called brain, to optimize the task at hand Before feeding it into the software.

I haven't updated my Google+ status since the initial befriending (or +1ing?) fever. The notification counter on the Google bar has mostly been dim, which means not much is going on in my friends’ circles either. Only a handful of people regularly post updates, which are mostly links to news reports and YouTube videos. Google+ looks more like an advanced news aggregator than the glorified online chat room that Facebook is.

I don’t see any apparent problems. There are no buggy behaviors or annoying social game updates that have plagued Facebook for years (I empathize with my “friend” who brags about the number of mobsters he killed that day—I want to kill him too). The user interface has been designed by an ex-Apple charisma—so brilliant that Google has adopted that UI for other services . What about the number of users, the ultimate yardstick of success in the Net? Google has the largest reservoir in the world. I mean, maybe 70% of my acquaintances use Facebook, but 100% of them use Google’s services in some way. All Google has to do is to keep test-drilling—which they are doing relentlessly.

Then, is it just a matter of time, as Larry Page and his pals have been insisting? Will I jump on the bandwagon as soon as the majority of my friends start using it? Something tells me that won’t be the case. The true reason I haven’t been using Google+ is because it scares me (as always the case when I am reluctant to do something).

How come? Google is trying everything to make Google+ “friendly.” And there lies the problem. What’s at the core of Google—to make everything public and searchable—does not match the surface appearance of Google+—to make everything friendly and intimate. Google+ is a pill called “public” wrapped by a coating called “private.” I might even call it a red pill colored in blue. It does not look like a matter of mismatch. It looks more like deception.

In case of my two existing social networks, Facebook and Twitter, they are tuned to their expertise—private (Facebook) or public (Twitter)—inside out. Facebook makes it easier to upload multimedia files (URLs automatically turn into embedded videos, for example), form groups, and create events. Twitter gently forces me to feed information in a compact and easy-to-digest form (140 letters) and referring to other tweets or links can be done in seconds. I might post the same content to both networks, but my communication style changes between them—in Facebook I chat, and in Twitter I make statements. The platform architecture and my mindset are in sync.

If I use Google+, I might be inclined to create intimate and private conversations but might be (gently) forced to feed publicly. Will that be similar to creating a family drama on a stage, or worse—living inside a cage in a zoo? That is the source of my fear. I know, Google is simply trying to do what works best. Taking the best of both worlds by coupling an intimate and multimedia-friendly user interface (Facebook) with an open architecture (Twitter) is a smart strategy, and as a late comer to the social media wars, Google probably had no other choices.

I hear Google engineers clicking their tongues. Here we go again, dummy: You never see the option to switch Google+ circles to private mode. Technically that’s true. I can do the same for Facebook and Twitter too. I can “open” Facebook by making a public profile and allowing subscriptions, or I can “close” Twitter by forbidding automatic following and hiding my tweets. But that’s not what they are designed for. At their cores, Facebook is a chat tool and Twitter is a personal radio station. I feel at home by using them the ways they were created for.

But what is Google+ created for, after all? What is at its heart? I am not quite convinced that Google made Google+ just to let users have fun. I rather believe what’s at the heart of Google+ is the Google DNA: to make every piece of information publicly accessible. It is slightly different from Twitter, which only “allows” users to make information public. Google, therefore Google+, “makes” users do so.

Up until now, we the happy innocent masses were on the receiving end: pick whatever useful topic you're interested in from the ocean of information provided by the Almighty G. But we have slowly been realizing that we have also been integrated into the ocean itself, and Google is making it clearer—for example by integrating Google+ into Google search results, which has been causing tons of arguments over the Net.

Quite possibly I am resisting the inevitable. Even more possibly I might become a heavy Google+ user after the tipping point, when my friends start showing up more on Google+ than Facebook. But I do want to record the uneasiness I am having now; it was, is, and will, stay. Five years from now, I will look back and will see the whole picture.

  by  Lee Cofa 

A technical writer is someone who writes user manuals. That's the most successful description of my work when I have to explain it to my friends. And it usually ends the conversation. That's life—asi es la vida.

Today's topic is one of the untold stories about being a technical writer. It is simple: Does it pay? Here it goes, in full graphic (it is for the US market but also applicable elsewhere, overall). Here are some of the trends.

Technical writers want to write.

Technical writers take rest?

Technical writers write about high-tech but work low-tech.

Overall, technical writing does look similar to any other office jobs, doesn't it?

  by  faith goble 

 My definition of art is the chemical reaction between the art(ist) and the audience. Then what does an artist do, after all? She doesn’t set out to create chemistry—that’s a secondary effect. She is out to create tangible (or intangible) work. What does she create, and why does she do that?

I used to think there is no reason for artistic creation; it just happens, as when we like someone. But to create is to act, and when we take a course of action there should be a reason that drives us: a primitive emotion such as fear, joy, or anger. What is the urge to create? I’ll twist this question personally: Why do I want to write? I need to understand this point clearly, otherwise waking up at 4:00am every day is nothing but self-torture.

Whenever I say I “write” I have an uneasy sensation because I don’t enjoy the writing process much. Usually before I write I cannot wait to open my laptop; after that I will do anything to not write. If there is one thing that all writers agree on, it is that writing is hard: I can practically define a writer as someone who doesn’t want to write. On top of that, it is a lonely affair and has an infinitely low return-of-investment ratio in monetary terms. Why keep writing?

It is because I have the urge to share that “something” which exists in my mind. It starts as a vague sensation or a short question during commuting, my shower, or lunch. For example, this post started from the aforementioned sarcastic insight: Why do I write, when the first thing that comes to my mind about writing is “It is hard”? If I am not careful, the vague sensation quickly gets buried among mental noise. But if I succeed in picking it up (= jot it down in my notebook), I can later plant it and grow it by adding—or inviting—more words.

If I endure the pain and sleep deprivation during drafting, something unexpected occurs: the idea starts to take its own course. During the (literally) dark hour of writing, I feel the sensation that a new horizon is opening up in front of me. What started as a mental itchiness turns into a discovery of a new thought, an idea that did not exist until I put it down through my keyboard. When a good draft is completed, I feel more like a transcriptionist than a writer. I wrote it, but I did not “make it up”; that piece of writing was there all the time, waiting for someone to dig it out. Then I turn into a 5-year-old who proudly hands out this dirt meatball to everybody: Look what I’ve got!

Therefore, for me it is more about discovery and sharing. I am entirely not sure if I “made up” something because, as I said, the idea—hopefully—takes care of its own growth; I just supply water and fertilizer. After the initial phase, I feel more like the witness to an event. I write because that’s the only way I know how to recreate this discovery-and-share cycle. And that’s what artists do in general, I believe. The urge to share our discoveries is etched in our psyche as a human being. Artists are especially tuned to that urge and create their work to share what they see, hear, smell, taste, feel, or think, with the world. Some take up brushes, some knives, some their own bodies. I type.

This is my Amazon Kindle. It has four buttons surrounding the five-way pad.

Three of them are intuitive: Home, Menu, and Keyboard (from right to left). One is not: Return (the leftmost one). 

Why it isn't intuitive?

• It looks too similar to the Enter key on computer keyboards — it’s just upside down. I wrongly assumed that I could use the button to click a link.
• Because I have only a dozen books on my Kindle, pressing that button simply takes me back to the Home page. Well, we have the precious Home button for that purpose. I will not make a good use of the Return button until I have hundreds of books on my Kindle.

The problem is not in the design of the Return symbol. It is that we are getting accustomed to the almighty Home button on an iPhone, iPad, or any clone products. Home = Return; that is the current paradigm. There should only be one layer between where you are and where everything resides. Amazon should have copied Apple and simply omitted the Return function from their Kindle.

Then what else should replace that button? I think it should be the User-defined button where you can assign a function from a list of options to the button. I can think of some examples.

• Show Table of Contents: very important when you are reading non-fiction
• Swap the Dictionary: a crucial feature for multi-language readers (including this one)
• Enable Wireless and go to the Kindle Store: why let users take two steps to reach the store? Bonus: pressing the same button can return to the book and disable wireless at the same time.

  by  Luke Peterson Photography 

The second part of this series talk about another unique aspect of Kibbutz Bardo massage: Going out. Or, I would rather say Going up.

The massage bed was set up in the middle of the apartment rooftop (Kibbutz Bardo is on the fourth floor). Dusk is approaching; the air is getting chilly. The incense candle is blowing in the mild wind. I look around. All I can see is rows of grayish apartments and reinforced concrete buildings. Here I am, wrapping myself in a yukata (Japanese bath robe) and exposing myself to the world. Hmm. The nomad part of me says Interesting. The localized part of me says Let’s get back in. The Japanese part of me says Be respectful. Two to one: Stay.

The massage begins with burning herb incense. The smoke reminds me of a signal—something that flies over the soldiers in trenches in World War I movies— Get ready. (Read the first part of this series to see what happens.)

When my abdomen is being worked on, I turn around and look up (where else can I look?). The stars and clouds are there, floating on the gray-blue sky. Well, thanks to Taipei’s perennial smog, there are only few visible stars. But they are, nonetheless, or perhaps because of that, beautiful. Seeing an ocean of stars high up in the mountain is a special experience, needless to say. But I find out that locating only a couple of weak shines is also valuable on its own. Because the radiance is so fragile and scarce, you cannot but stare at the stars, as if doing so keeps them shining longer. I play hide-and-seek with the stars, which constantly duck beneath the clouds.

As I fix my gaze into the open air, I start to lose the sense of my body. Or more precisely, I don’t know where my body ends and where the sky starts. This fish-eye lens view does not have a beginning or an end: Everything is connected. I enjoy being part of the universe, temporarily taking refuge in oneness away from the daily world of isolation. Having had my body internally dissolved into an energy field (metaphorically), I sharpen my focus—or I completely lose my focus, which might obtain the same result—much more easily than usual. There is no separation between me (the subject) and the rest (the object).

Funny, I say to myself. During our daily madness, we always dream of a vacation in a tropical island, as if complete relaxation is a luxury that can only be obtained by traveling thousands of kilometers and spending an absurd amount of money. Well, there it is—two floors above. Suddenly I want to wake up and run out on the street to claim that I found the secret formula for turning the urban jungle into a tropical resort: 1. Lie down. 2. Look up.

I wonder how many lost opportunities are around us—wonderful things we just haven’t noticed yet. But the new integrated me interrupts the old me: Don’t think too much. Let everything go. So I fall asleep. Ignorance is always bliss.

This is what appears at the first page of the user manual of the iPad. The usual minimalistic Apple style: immaculately clean, simple yet strong, nothing excessive.

Or maybe not — especially the last point. What is “For iOS 5.0 Software”? I don’t know. And if I, who has worked in the IT industry for 10+ years and is a proud owner of a MacBook Air, cannot get it, then most users won’t get it either. Maybe Apple had to label the manual clearly so manuals for older versions of the OS won’t slip into the newer models. Whatever the reason is, Apple clearly put it for their own convenience, not that of their customers.

I don’t think a case like this would have happened in their product design. Every single unintuitive element would have been plucked away before we knew. Apparently the manual was left out of the neurotic attentions of the great Steve Jobs (and Jonathan Ive).

Maybe they knew the quality of their manuals was not up to the level of their product design. But does it matter? Manuals exist to explain what the product is about. Apple’s philosophy is to let the products explain themselves. For them, manuals might be the stuff that they keep mainly out of old habits — for the customers.