Centrino Laptops Reviewed

Jeff Mancuso writes "CNET seems to be the first out with full reviews of the new Centrino Pentium M laptops. The performance looks solid, the features are great, designs are thin and battery life runs up to 4-7 hours on these machines." Yeah, I had hoped that we would make it on the review list, but alas, no such luck. Nice looking machines, though.

Comments

Call it a night, KY cowboy!

[Anonymous Coward]

YOU AND YOUR 4 MILLION SIMPSONS-REFERENCING FRINENDS ARE NOT FUNNY, ASSHOLE.

This will be posted in response to each and every "huh huh, homer wuz write!" post in this thread. Enjoy!

adfwvqrewf

First low power consumption but high speed post

[Anonymous Coward]

all

[greenalbatros]

your centrinos are belong to intel

Great news for Linux

[Anonymous Coward]

Powerful laptops with a beautiful KDE install are great ways to spread the Linux WORD. On planes trains, and automobiles, let Linux and KDE shine!

fuck!

[Anonymous Coward]

i would have had first post, but this centrino laptop is a worthless piece of shit!

If you support Slashdot, you support terrorism

[Anonymous Coward]

I wouldn't be surprised if VA Software itself was funneling money to Al Quaeda and other anti-American terrorist organizations, due to the rampant anti-American sentiment that runs rampant through both comments and the little snide remarks made by Michael, CmdrTaco, etc. in the story submissions.

Before you sign up for the subscription service so that you can continue to get your oh-so-beloved "FIRST POST!!!!!!", just ask yourself exactly where the money is going. Maybe to kill another 3,000 innocent Americans.

Remember what our President said: If you aren't for us, you are against us. They are tracking you. Slashdot and other anti-American, anti-capitalist websites ARE being watched, I can assure you. Watch what you say. Personally I hope the whole lot of you are arrested and subjected to sleep-deprivation interrogation techniques. Serves you right.

lnux: $0.87

[Anonymous Coward]

Record Of Events

[Anonymous Coward]

10:26 AM: Eating toast for breakfast and already drinking. The sooner this all ends, the happier I'll be.

All about the pentiums

[Anonymous Coward]

It's all about the Pentiums, baby
Uhh, uh-huh, yeah Uhh, uh-huh, yeah
It's all about the Pentiums, baby
It's all about the Pentiums, baby
What y'all wanna do?
Wanna be hackers? Code crackers? Slackers
Wastin' time with all the chatroom yakkers?
9 to 5, chillin' at Hewlett Packard?
Workin' at a desk with a dumb little placard?
Yeah, payin' the bills with my mad programming skills
Defraggin' my hard drive for thrills
I got me a hundred gigabytes of RAM
I never feed trolls and I don't read spam
Installed a T1 line in my house
Always at my PC, double-clickin' on my mizouse
Upgrade my system at least twice a day
I'm strictly plug-and-play, I ain't afraid of Y2K
I'm down with Bill Gates, I call him Money for short
I phone him up at home and I make him do my tech support
It's all about the Pentiums, what?
You gotta be the dumbest newbie I've ever seen
You've got white-out all over your screen
You think your Commodore 64 is really neato
What kinda chip you got in there, a Dorito?
You're using a 286? Don't make me laugh
Your Windows boots up in what, a day and a half?
You could back up your whole hard drive on a floppy diskette
You're the biggest joke on the internet
Your database is a disaster
You're waxin' your modem tryin' to make it go faster
Hey fella, I bet you're still livin' in your parents' cellar
Downloadin' pictures of Sarah Michelle Gellar
And postin "Me too!" like some brain-dead AOL-er
I should do the world a favor and cap you like Old Yeller
You're just about as useless as jpegs to Helen Keller
It's all about the Pentiums!
It's all about the Pentiums!
Now, what y'all wanna do?
Wanna be hackers? Code crackers? Slackers
Wastin' time with all the chatroom yakkers?
9 to 5, chillin at Hewlett Packard?
Uh, uh, loggin' in now
Wanna run wit my crew, hah?
Rule cyberspace and crunch numbers like I do?
They call me the king of the spreadsheets
Got em all printed out on my bedsheets
My new computer's got the clocks, it rocks
But it was obsolete before I opened the box
You say you've had your desktop for over a week?
Throw that junk away, man, it's an antique!
Your laptop is a month old? Well, that's great
If you could use a nice, heavy paperweight
My digital media is write-protected
Every file inspected, no viruses detected
I beta tested every operating system
Gave props to some, and others? I dissed 'em
While your computer's crashin', mine's multitaskin'
It does all my work without me even askin'
Got a flat-screen monitor, 40" wide
I believe that yours says "Etch-A-Sketch" on the side
In a 32-bit world, you're a 2-bit user
You've got your own newsgroup, alt.total-loser
Your mother board melts when you try to send a fax
Where'd you get your CPU, in a box of Cracker Jacks?
Play me online? Well, you know that I'll beat you
If I ever meet you I'll control-alt-delete you
It's all about the Pentiums!
It's all about the Pentiums!
What y'all wanna do?
Wanna be hackers? Code crackers? Slackers
Wastin' time with all the chatroom yakkers?
9 to 5, chillin' at Hewlett Packard?

Taking notes at long conferences

[Anonymous Coward]

I'm going to be attending my first RSA conference and my boss wants me to take notes so I can present to the group when I return. Other than the obvious pen-and-paper approach, what would you recommend for those 8 AM to 5 PM conference days? Between a laptop with extra batteries, a Palm, or a PocketPC, which would you recommend? For the handhelds, should I bring a folding keyboard? Should I opt for a rechargable model or bring my own rechargable AAAs which makes it easier to switch out spares?

Fuck You All

[Anonymous Coward]

"Anyone that says life is great is LYING. I need a chemical lobotomy like Ozzy. I'm too fucking aware of my own consciousness for my own fucking good. I just want to forget that I'm mortal and boring. I'm so fucking sick that all I can do is sit around in bed watching TV while trying to aim my phlegm into the garbage can. If anyone reading this site is in marketing, do the world a favour and kill yourself right now. I'm serious. You're worthless. You're scum. Your job is to make us feel like we're lepers and the only thing that will make us feel better is buying your product. I hate the TV. I hate you."

Re:Fuck You All

[Anonymous Coward]

I take the bag out and hand it to him. Then another knock at the door. This time Todd walks in. Todd is a good person -- honest, professional. He is also an old speed fiend. He was hooked for ten years and then quit but it left him with some permanent damage to the nervous system: twitching and mumbling; sometimes you can catch him talking to his luggage. Now he only dabbles. He dabbles every day but he won't do more than a tiny bit. He is too cheap to buy so he always grubs. He doesn't say anything to me, he just stands there with his hands in his pockets, his eyes darting about the room but never falling on me. I take the bag back from Ray and remove the brick. "You want some Todd?" I ask without looking up from the table. "Ah, ah, yea, yea...just a little bit though, just a little bit. Don't need much." I cut a little out and look up at him. "Is that good?" "Oh...yea, yea, yea, that's fine. That's great. That's great." He reaches into his breast pocket and pulls out a ready-made bindle. "Ah, just scoop it into here for me. Please." I fill his bindle and they leave. The drug is kicking in hard. My jaw is cemented closed and my guts shift. Perversions flash through my mind: doing things to woman, unseemly things. It's time for me to disappear. I get up silently and go to the bunk area. I kick off my boots and climb into my bunk. Images of woman blind me for a moment. Images of the openings in there bodies, penetrated, engulfing, making guttural sounds that seem inches from my ear. I reach down to the foot of my bunk and grab Celine's Journey. It is a soft cover edition and the cover is black and white, mostly black, which makes it easier to see the drug as I use the book as a cutting surface. I reach behind me and flick on my bunk light, then pull my curtain closed. My imagination is testing the physical limits of the female rectum. Without blood, without resistance the impossible is accomplished. I turn on my side, facing the wall, and chop out a line on Celine. I consume the line and then quickly flick off the light and lay on my back. The engine cranks over and the walls of the bus rattle. Alone in my bunk: muscles frozen, joints locked, teeth aching. There is no way to tell how long I've been here. I am in my underwear and a shirt. The shirt is soaked in sweat, so is the mattress and the pillow. I've consumed most of the oxygen in my small enclosure. There is no light here, no sound but the constant grind of the bus engine and the voices in my head. I am slowly dying. I resuscitate myself at intervals with the drug but it only lasts a few seconds. I am the murderer and I am the victim. I conjure up a sexual image of Jacqueline but it immediately disintegrates into feelings of loneliness and regret which shoot through me like needles. Eight years of conflict, of fighting over insecurities, of tearing each other down because we are too weak to face each other whole, struggling towards some resolution that could never be sustained. Relationships are collisions which begin through a common purpose, through common needs, but the exchanges are always unbalanced and intrusive. We open, we close and struggle to flush out the remains as we move within the human circle, caught in an endless skirmish of rape and reception, stripping more than we can give back, giving more than we can take, the bonds eroding and crumbling towards an inescapable end. I am tense as a steel cable, pulled taut with the weight of a disjointed and incomplete past, of a destitute future. My knees are locked into a bent position, my back slightly arched, my head pressed deep into the pillow. I am about to shatter. Then the sliding door to the bunk area is yanked open, slamming against the backstop in the wall. The sound jolts through me and my body jumps an inch from the mattress. The horror of my solitude cracks like tempered glass and the outside world floods in, drowning and exposing me. It is Clemens, our tour manager. He occupies the bunk beneath me. He flicks on the overhead light and I can see the shadow of his face through my curtain. The light is like an ingot being driven through my temples. He squats down and begins rummaging through his bunk. I curl up into a ball slowly, silently, so that he won't hear me moving. If he hears me than he will be aware of my existence, and at this moment the very thought of another human being's awareness is unbearable. To conceal the sound of my breaths I take the air in slowly, precisely. The minutes he spends outside my bunk feel like hours as I lay hard and frozen like a bronze cast. Finally, I hear the sliding door bump closed. He's left without turning off the overhead light. For a moment I hate him more completely than I've ever hated before. His disregard makes me want to lash out at him, but the desire just lays in me, trapped and building pressure. I begin to shake, but I am incapable of any other movement. I cannot even bring myself to reach out and shut off the light. The pale, yellow light filters through my curtain, casting deep shadows into the corners of my bunk. I can just make out the outline of my body, the faint luminescence of my skin. I need another line. I want to reach for Celine but I still have the creeping sensation that there is someone standing right outside my bunk. I turn my head to the left and peer through the curtain. I can see the source of light shinning from the roof of the aisle, but the images of the adjacent bunks and cabinets between are blurred. Suddenly my eyes detect movement. My ears immediately connect sound to the movement. I think I can see the shape of some ones head, peering down at me through the curtain, watching me with cold, omniscient eyes. My imagination completes the details of the face but I don't recognize it. I only know that it is grinning. I close my eyes and open them again but the face is still there, waiting on the brink of my sanity. I move my head off the pillow and slide it toward the curtain. There is a thin line of light were the curtain meets the mattress and I peer through it with one eye. I look up and down the bunk isle, then wait a minute to see if anyone will pop their head up from the bunks below. No one is there: I am hallucinating. I flick on my bunk light and roll onto my side. I quickly chop out a line and consume it, my movements so frantic and careless that I spill meth all over the book and the mattress. I don't attempt to clean it up. I just flick off the light and lay on my back. My thoughts are possessed by the female form, bent and stretched into receiving positions. A being engineered for no other purpose than the production of kinetic energy, stripped of all compassion, conscience, morality. Identity exists only in the physical sense, a raw simplicity that is brutal and razor sharp. The will is narrowed to a single beam of concentrated energy focused only on the flesh. Passion is merely a byproduct, incidental. I try to hold the purity of this vision but it quickly becomes unstable. A face is attached. The eyes become human. The act takes on meaning, vitality, consequence... The fear is always there, lying at the plinth of emotion, waiting for an opportunity, for the slightest breach in confidence. This fear is virginal and absolute. To search out its source would be irrelevant; its smallest component can never be removed. It can only be held down temporarily, and even then it can be felt like cold mercury lying at the bottom of everywhere. This fear can be called futility, isolation, death. This is the fear that drives men to believe in God. This is the fear that destroys the faithless. This is the fear that rapes and murders the innocent. This is the fear that will nurture the end of the world. There is a new face peering down at me through the curtain, near the foot of my bunk. It is female --quintessentially female. The face doesn't hold a steady position. It moves unnaturally, quivering from side to side in stop-motion. The eyes can only be seen as deep hollows in the face, but I know it is watching me, probing me. It knows who I am. It has seen and tested all weaknesses. It moves through me like cancer, consuming the soft tissues first: An adolescent male sits home in a dark house. This is a rare moment when the house is quiet and still. He is in the kitchen, sitting in the darkness, listening to the hum of the refrigerator and the slow hiss of steam leaking from the radiator valve. These quiet, resurgent sounds seem to collect and build pressure inside him. There is a middle aged woman who lives in the apartment across from him. He can see her kitchen window from his, it lies directly across a short stretch of tarred roof. She lives there alone. Sometimes at night he watches her move about her kitchen -- empty, functional movements that are hidden from the world yet seem somehow staged, as if they are being performed for a presence which perpetually watches over her, but at this time of night she is not moving about. She is in bed now, probably sleeping, the covers up to her breasts, folded over neatly and still tucked tightly between the mattress and the box-spring. He thinks about her lying there alone, of how vulnerable she is. He gets up from his chair and moves to the window. He leans forward, both hands on the sill, and brings his face close to the glass. He is looking out on a small, square niche of roof which drops down ten feet lower than the main roof. There are four windows, one at each corner of the square. These are the kitchen windows of the neighboring apartments. The brick walls have been painted white and the soft moonlight washes down from above, reflecting off the paint and lending the walls a luminous, ethereal quality. It is a cool, still night in early March and she has left her window a few inches open. It would be so easy, he thinks, so easy to creep across the roof and enter her apartment. He pulls his kitchen window up slowly, steadily, and there is the rubbing sound of aged, dry wood against wood, and the faint rattle of the pane. Everything seems to slip into a dream-state as he peers across the roof and into her window. He inhales deeply. There is a warm trace of spring in the air. He puts one foot up on the window ledge an leans forward, his body half out of the window. His hands are at his flanks, fingertips still touching the sill. He stays frozen in this position for a few moments, like a runner waiting for the starting gun in the four hundred meter. How would he do it? He couldn't let her see him. He would have to creep silently up to her bed and blind fold her with something. But then she would scream. He would have to gag her as well. What would come first, the eyes or the scream? The eyes would come first. It would all have to be done quickly, maybe initially with a pillow until he could apply the blindfold and the gag. He would have to bind her wrists and ankles to the bed as well, so she could not call the police immediately after his escape. He would make it look as if an intruder jimmied the front door. Who would suspect him? Just then, as he stood there in deep calculation, he thought he heard a noise come from the window on the right side of the square, adjacent to hers. It was a clanking sound, a metallic sound, as if someone were rummaging with on hand through a half open drawer for spoon or a fork or maybe even a knife in the dark of their kitchen. Now a slow, seeping feeling in his bowels as he imagines that someone has been watching him the whole time. For a moment he is too terror-stricken to do anything. He is frozen there half naked, his white skin glowing in the moonlight. Then he retreats slowly back into his kitchen, his eyes never leaving the window were the sound emanated from, straining for a glimpse of some movement behind the dark glass. He closes the window more slowly and silently than he had opened it just minutes ago, then straightens his back and breathes deeply, once again taking in the quiet sounds of the kitchen. I can still see the face through my curtain, only now its features begin to take on a more singular identity. Its cheekbones float inward and establish permanent positions. The lips turn a deeper pink and the shape of the mouth comes into focus. The surrounding shadow of hair grows darker, adding depth to the vision. It is Jacqueline. I begin to tell myself that I am not losing my mind, that this is what happens when the body doesn't sleep for three days and is suffering from malnutrition. You learn the true meaning of hopelessness when you lose control of your mind. There is no refuge left for me. I have been going too hard for too long out here. Death has now become something urgent, always just minutes away, and my body is sounding the alarm. My heart begins to fly out of control, racing toward the finish line and Jackie will not go away. I know she is not truly here but I still have to prove it to myself. I can no longer lie here, shivering in a pool of sweat with her watching over me. I snap up the curtain and pop my head out into the empty aisle. The air is ten degrees cooler in the aisle and it is almost refreshing. The sweat begins to dry on my skin as the crisp air flows into my bunk. For many minutes I hold my head outside the curtain, gulping the air, my neck growing stiff as I stare down the empty isle toward the front lounge door. The bus rocks and lurches toward some unreachable destination. The bus has secured itself. It will still be out here, winding down the highway, long after I've been tossed back into civilization. I don't want to go back there. I don't want to practice human interaction again. I have forgotten how to live that way. No one is really human out here. They make attempts at it once or twice a day when they call home from a pay phone, but their reality is out here, and in time even the pay phone holds more substance than the voice at the other end of the line. When I'm satisfied with the temperature of my bunk I let the curtain drop back down to the mattress and roll on my side. I flick on my bunk light and pull out the bag, noticing that I have finished little more than half the eight ball. This terrifies me because I know I do not have the courage to throw it away. It is part of the compulsion; there is no saving this drug for tomorrow. As long as I know it is there, tucked securely between the mattress and the wall, I will keep going back for more. I cut out a line and consume it, then drop back own to the mattress and flick off the light. A swarm of insects moves through me. My thoughts are set off into motion -- unrelated images begin to accelerate and become scrambled, erratic, and it takes me a few minutes and some deep breaths to slow them down and bring them to a stop. Another face staring at me through the curtain. This time it is Jake. I recognize the hair. Only this time there is a real possibility that he is standing outside my bunk, maybe checking to see if I'm still breathing. I lift the curtain and jerk my head out into the aisle. No one there. I pull my head back into the bunk and drop the curtain down. It only takes a few seconds for the shape of his head to come back into focus. It re-creates itself right out of the fabric of the curtain. "You're not there." I say out loud, hearing the sound of my own voice for the first time in days. My voice sounds completely alien, as if for the first time in my life I am hearing the true character of its tone. Up to this point I had been too close to it to know what it meant, what it stood for, and now it sounds as lost and desperate as I have always heard everyone else's to be. I close my eyes and try to think of something good. My mind goes blank and for a moment I believe this is good, but I can't stop the thoughts for long. They creep beneath my scalp like lice. They crawl into my ears and eyes: the endless gnawing of what I am and what I am not. I am no great lover. I am no guitarist. I am no fucking writer. I am a coward, a cheat, a drug addict and an alcoholic. I am a runner looking for the next escape, a believer in nothing. There is no longer anything left that moves me, or even touches me. The game goes on and I have no desire left to play. I know the motives, the outcome, and it is all so predictable and uninteresting that I only wish to die immediately. The only problem I have with my destruction is that it is taking too long. I stretch it out slow and pathetic because I don't have the guts to do it any other way. This is the most difficult truth to deal with: I have never known anyone who had a chance at redemption or happiness and it seems to me that the only solution is a swift and painless termination. I open my eyes and Jake is still staring down at me. Jake still believes in success. At least he believes in something. I can no longer even justify this band. All this we've built around us; the money, the busses, the trucks, the lights, the audience, all an elaborate diversion. And not just us. All the musicians, artists, writers, intellectuals, millionaires, all washed in diversion, disguising the shit with a polished chrome shell -- and all the time, beneath the shell, lies the original failure. At the deepest level there is always failure; every creature, every blade of grass, every millisecond of time harbors the innate seed of failure. Life has made a quixotic attempt and it has failed. Humanity has failed. Art is exposed and proven impotent. The masses cannibalize each other. They murder everything that moves and everything that does not move, driven to insanity as they grope for some form of comfort, of purpose, of value in the cold eye of existence. I do another line and it paralyzes me. I am now dead, only my eyes are open and I can still see, and my blood somehow circulates and there is the possibility of the next breath. The walls of the bus seem to disintegrate around me and suddenly I am being shot through the frigid night, the elements peeling away the layers of my skin as if they have been waiting for this opportunity since the moment of my birth. The drug is pushing my heart through my chest. Tomorrow is lost. A minute from now is lost. I hold on for the next breath. The bus has been parked for hours. The generator idles erratically, surging and dropping. The sounds that click and whisper just outside my curtain are intensified by the stillness. I lay here, my senses agape, the wet sheets gone cold as I dread the first vibrations of linecheck. I believe I'm here alone but I'm not sure. I had listened to each one of them as they woke and crawled out of their bunks. I could identify each of them by how meticulously they prepared or by the urgency of their movements. I had listened to them wriggle into their clothes fidget with their bags. I cringed as they cleared their throats and pulled up their zippers, all the time lying mute at the edge of their presence, waiting, yearning to purge them. Each time the bus makes some obscure sound my imagination turns it into something more complex, more human, more threatening, and I pop my head out of my bunk and look up and down the aisle. Sometimes I hear voices. Time stops dead, inches forward, stops dead. Whether moving or not, a hundred oppressive thoughts are compressed into the frame of each moment. I think of all the human relationships I've ever had, all of them marred by broken trust and hidden contempt. I think of all the things I know they've said behind my back, out loud or in their minds. I think of all the motives they ever had for loving me, or befriending me, or accepting me. All of them came with their own set of justifications, and for each justification there was an underlining ugliness. I try to think of someone who might be on my side, someone who is truly with me -- one person that would make the vulnerability and isolation more bearable. I can think of no one. Everywhere I look it is the same: the endless dance of control and submission, the vulnerabilities exploited, the beauty bound up and locked away, the spirit mined until its resources are exhausted. No one is ever truly with anyone. In the end, as always, we are alone.

Fuck You All

[Anonymous Coward]

"Do you want to know the real reason I have shunned society? The real reason why I have foregone cleansing my body and wrote off continuing to educate and build a life for myself oh so many years ago? Fine, I'll tell you, but be weary friend, for you may not like what you are about to hear. In my last year of high school I was a major drug addict. I'm talking about an addiction on a Kurt Cobain/Elvis Presley level. Things got so bad that I lost my part time job at the local fruit market and was reduced to sucking cock in the men's locker room after basketball practise just to get some money for a fix. I'd smoke the rock the second I got it into my grubby little hands. I usually went to all my classes stoned out of my mind, thinking about all the horrible cocks I'd have to suck to get some more. Somehow I managed to pass all my classes, graduated and even planned on going to university majoring in proctology.

On the last day of school my part time lover and drug dealer Lil Ralph invited me over to his crib that night for a non-stop session of bareback anal and freebasing. I mean, I wasn't even gay, but when you crave the rock, you also end up craving the cock. It seems as though Lil Ralph invited over quite a few of his other "clients" too, and we all ended up buck naked in the living room watching M.A.S.H. reruns and fucking each others brains out. It was one big orgy of methamphetamines, marijuana and cum swapping. The scum of my school was there. I ended up having sex with this girl named Lei Mi who I thought had down syndrome, but it turned out that she was just an Asian Mormon. I was smoking crack out of her fucking cunt and slapping around her pock-marked and blotchy breasts when I felt a sharp pain in my ass.

Someone thought that it would be funny to stick a lighter up my ass and try to light their cigarette by slapping my balls against the flint. Whoever it was pushed the lighter in so hard and so fast that it broke in half, and the lighter fluid drained out into my colon. I was so distraught by the pain and wasn't thinking clearly because of all the crack in my system that I reached into my ass and pulled out the cracked lighter as fast as I could. A spark went off and a flash of white light filled my eyes, igniting the inside of my ass. The awesome power of the firebomb of blood, shit and flames exploded in such a manner that everyone in the room was covered in blood and feces. My anal wall had collapsed and due to my intestines falling into my colon, I was never to walk again. I passed out and the next thing I remember I was in the recovery room at the local hospital. After the surgery I learned that I was going to be confined to a wheelchair for the rest of my life and now I have to shit into plastic K-Mart bags from a hole in my abdomen. I found out a month later that Lei Mi was pregnant with my child, too. That was five years ago and I haven't left my house since."

Re:next up:

[Anonymous Coward]

Don't you mean Kathleen Fent Taco?

or are you reviewing Kathleen Fent's taco?

pink taco?

bah

Re:Hey, stupid!

[Anonymous Coward]

Yeah, no shit.

If they want to be considered a real news site, they (the editors) need to do the following:

- Create an Op. Ed section, put all your snide comments and anti-corporate flamebait in their.

- Check your sources and facts. /. is currently the best source of misinformation on the net.

- Buy a spellchecker

- Learn to write objectively and coherently. Think about the layout of your articles. Proofread.

- Ditch the moderation system. It turns discussions into a popularity contest, and only one side of any given debate gets modded up.

- Become competent to write about technology. This means at least getting your GEDs or a couple evening classes at DeVry.

Re:nuke france!

[Anonymous Coward]

Yes Boycott all things french.

That means no more frogs legs or child molesting, michael. At least not until the war is over.

But Is it RFC-1149 Compliant?

[farrellj]

From the RFC:

Network Working Group
Request for Comments: 1149
D. Waitzman
BBN STC
1 April 1990
Page 1

A Standard for the Transmission of IP Datagrams on Avian Carriers

Status of this Memo

This memo describes an experimental method for the encapsulation of IP datagrams in avian carriers. This specification is primarily useful in Metropolitan Area Networks. This is an experimental, not recommended standard. Distribution of this memo is unlimited.
Overview and Rational

Avian carriers can provide high delay, low throughput, and low altitude service. The connection topology is limited to a single point-to-point path for each carrier, used with standard carriers, but many carriers can be used without significant interference with each other, outside of early spring. This is because of the 3D ether space available to the carriers, in contrast to the 1D ether used by IEEE802.3. The carriers have an intrinsic collision avoidance system, which increases availability. Unlike some network technologies, such as packet radio, communication is not limited to line-of-sight distance. Connection oriented service is available in some cities, usually based upon a central hub topology.