At its most simple level, "the cloud" is the network plugged into your computer, and a fine example of a "cloud computing" application is Gmail, Hotmail or one of the myriad other web mail services. Essentially the email application, let's say Gmail, runs on a server attached to the network somewhere outside your computer (aka "in the cloud.") Your data, in this case things like email messages, contacts, etc., also reside outside your computer, and thus your data are also "in the cloud." If you had a Hotmail account back in 1996, you were "cloud computing" and probably didn't even know it (nor did your local IT wonk, since the term had not yet become widely utilized).

If it sounds simple, that's because it is. Cloud computing is another unfortunate bit of obtuse jargon slapped atop a relatively simple concept, and for the most part another case of "what's old is new again." If you are wondering where the term originated, it is likely due to most of the diagramming software used to draw out computer a network, which represents a large network, usually the internet, as a cloud-shaped bubble. If you find yourself saying "this sounds a lot like the 'hosted applications' that were going to take over the world 10 years ago," or even the old days of dumb terminals connected to a smarter "corporate cloud," you would be completely correct.

The benefits and drawbacks are conceptually quite simple. You rely on someone else to build, maintain and upgrade software in the case of a cloud application, and do the same with your data for cloud storage, with obvious cost savings and theoretical increased reliability, ubiquity and commoditization. The negatives are giving up control and potentially quality and the decision fundamentally comes down to a classic "make versus buy" analysis.

Perhaps the only ones with their heads in the clouds are the IT industry, which repeatedly complains about the lack of respect, understanding and emphasis it receives, and then invents foolish and obfuscating terms to represent hackneyed and conceptually simple concepts.

As most of those who know me can attest, I am very far from perfect and rarely complete everything I set out to do, and thus I have found giving yourself permission to give up on a losing effort to be quite cathartic. However, there is more to "giving up" than just throwing up your hands and going on your way.

I like to look back and see why I have not been successful with an effort to this point. Where there constraints I did not initially suspect? Is there some capability or strength I need to develop before I can attempt the larger task? Did I bite off more than I could chew? After pondering these types of questions, I consider what it would take to develop and implement a remediation plan. With that plan in mind, I can make a fair and considered judgment whether to continue on, or give up, and make the latter decision with a clear conscious.

I have personally found giving up to be far less stressful than continuing to let an effort worry me, constantly setting then resetting reminder dates, or mentally beating myself up for not making some form of progress. Every army occasionally suffers a losing battle, and the sooner you can surrender, regroup and rearm, the more quickly you are back on the proverbial battlefield, stronger and smarter than before.

Unless one is proposing policies against smashing ones head into a brick wall repeatedly, rarely are the ideas presented as "commonsense" truly commonsense. I cannot imagine this trick really fools anyone, and it smacks of arrogance on the part of the speaker. How can one have an intelligent debate on the facts and mertis of an idea, when the person presenting the idea has essentially said "Here is what I am proposing, and you must be a complete idiot if you do not agree wholeheartedly"?

Political speech is a fine source for these forms of linguistic arrogance, another favorite of mine being "irrefutable." During a recent speech in the United States the President suggested he was open to debate around "the irrefutable science of climate change." How can one debate something openly that has they have already claimed as "irrefutable?"

These forms of linguistic arrogance make the speaker seem like they are grinding for a fight right the instant they open their mouth, framing the debate immediately in terms of winners and losers, rather than an exchange of ideas, or a subtle attempt to change another person's thinking. Framing an idea as "commonsense" or "irrefutable" that clearly is not, usually causes me to lose most respect for the speaker and realize any further conversation is likely to be irrelevant, as I am speaking with either a zealot or someone so intellectually lazy that they would rather resort to verbal trickery than truly attempt to debate their idea on its own merits.

Before my first trip, I had naively assumed I would eventually come to recognize some of the 28,000 characters that make up the Mandarin language. Much like when one visits a country that uses the Latin alphabet, despite not speaking the language, you can easily recognize the words "PORTE MAILLOT" despite not being able to pronounce them correctly. You can then find them on a subway map, or generally get someone to understand them despite mangling their pronunciation horrible. Despite several half-hearted attempts and 8 months in China, I can only recognize the characters for "exit" and "person," neither proving particularly useful.

I remember first arriving in mainland China via the Shenzhen ferry, and suddenly finding myself completely and utterly illiterate and effectively mute. I could not match anything on my "cheat sheet" of Chinese destinations with the local signage, and could do little other than take a deep breath, collect myself, and slowly attempt to figure out what to do next. Everything became novel and a small but heartfelt victory, from my first taxi ride to shouting "TAI QUAI" (too expensive) when bargaining at one of the local markets.

Every time I needed to go somewhere, I would generally rely on someone I did not know to write my destination on a scrap of paper in a language I had no hope of understanding. This would then be given to a taxi driver, who would make a few inquiries in Mandarin, shake his head once he realized the lo wei (foreigner) in the back seat spoke a whopping 10 words of mandarin, and then launch us into crazy Chinese traffic. I could either develop a childlike trust that everything would work out in the end, and I would arrive at somewhere close to where I intended, or I could spend my time worrying about the countless "what if" scenarios that would ensue if someone took advantage of my newfound childlike innocence. I chose the former, and when frustrated in my less far-flung travails, I recall that moment at the Shenzhen ferry terminal, take a deep breath, and then ponderously make my way forward.