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‎ask-mr-protocol-apdx-1.md

+101-101
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1-
# APPENDIX I: Mr Protocol Soaks His Head
2-
3-
## May 26, 1987
4-
5-
Mr. Protocol, having recently become a certified scuba diver (and
6-
there are those among us who believe he’s been certifiable for years),
7-
recently signed aboard the Good Ship Cee Ray for a diving trip to
8-
Santa Catalina Island. Perforce, his amanuensis (my own long-suffering
9-
self) went along. Mr. Protocol’s natural sunny good cheer got him off
10-
to a good start for a 7AM boat departure; I very nearly underwent
11-
adrenocortical burnout when the alarm went off at 4:30.
12-
13-
The trip to San Pedro was uneventful, and directions to the boat
14-
landing were, for a wonder, adequate. Naturally, I did the
15-
driving. Mr. Protocol does not drive as Los Angeles driving protocol
16-
is incompletely specified. For similar reasons, Mr. Protocol refuses
17-
even to go out on the street in New York City.
18-
19-
After noting that the parking lot was full, I parked the car by the
20-
curb right near the sign saying “NO STOPPING ANY TIME” (ignoring
21-
Mr. P’s anguished cries), together with the other twenty people who
22-
were unloading tanks, buoyancy compensators, gear bags, etc. onto the
23-
sidewalk. This, I suppose, comes of going to a boat landing on Sunday
24-
of Memorial Day weekend, when all the boat owners have been out and
25-
away since Saturday. After carting the gear to the boat, I moved the
26-
car to a lot down the street Carting the gear took several
27-
trips. While Mr. Protocol is in substantial equipoise at any depth,
28-
Mikey wears a 43 (forty-three) pound weight belt, which makes
29-
gear-lugging a substantial proposition. We signed in and hung out
30-
after claiming bunk space. Except for Mr. Protocol, of course. He
31-
never sleeps.
32-
33-
The boat left the dock right around 7AM. It left the breakwater around
34-
7:25, and then things got interesting. There is a saying, “If you can
35-
see Catalina from the mainland, don’t go. It’s too rough." Well, we
36-
couldn’t see Catalina, but it was still pretty rough. Mr. Protocol, of
37-
course, spent most of the 2-hour trip standing in the bow of the boat,
38-
rolling with the swells and whistling “Blow the Man Down.” I spent the
39-
trip in the stem of the boat, eyes fixed on the horizon line and
40-
hoping that the Dramamine would kick in before the adrenochrome wore
41-
off. It was a hazy trip.
42-
43-
We anchored in Starlight Cove, at the rear (landward) side of the
44-
island, which was the lee side that day. The cove blocked the
45-
swells. Unfortunately the only dive partner I could find for the first
46-
dive was a student in a class, so I spent the first dive watching
47-
people do pathological things to their equipment at forty feet. I
48-
refused to consider Mr. Protocol as a dive buddy for several
49-
reasons. 1) Mr. Protocol is uncomfortable with a term as familiar as
50-
“buddy.” 2) It is very difficult to actually get any sightseeing done
51-
when diving with Mr. Protocol, as all he ever does is go through
52-
safety protocol. After awhile you get tired of continually clearing
53-
your mask and changing to your second regulator, etc. And I flat-out
54-
refuse to practice an emergency buoyant ascent It’s sort of like
55-
hyperspace: sometimes you don’t come out 3) Many people are
56-
uncomfortable letting me dive with a buddy that no one else can see.
57-
58-
By this time I was thinking that this trip was a bust Mr. Protocol,
59-
ever the indefatigable optomist, counselled waiting for the second
60-
dive location. Lo and behold, for that dive an honest-to-goodness
61-
certified-but-novice diver, just like myself, was looking for a
62-
partner. The second location, Stony Point, was a cove like the first,
63-
but with more kelp. Now, a genuine kelp forest is a riot of life. We
64-
saw garibaldi. Hard to miss them. They’re bright orange fish about 6”
65-
long and highly territorial They come right up to your mask and say
66-
“Who dat?” They refuse to leave you alone. You swim around in a
67-
veritable cloud of garibaldi. No, they don’t bite. We saw starfish. We
68-
saw urchins. We saw garibaldi eating an abalone. We saw sea fans and
69-
sponges and cucumbers. Hard to miss the cucumbers. The whole bottom
70-
looks like someone emptied a vat of dill pickles. You pick them up and
71-
they turn into dill footballs. All the while we were swimming through
72-
a forest of giant kelp, which resemble nothing so much as the giant
73-
redwoods of Sequoia, in effect if not in actual appearance.
74-
75-
After returning to the boat, Mr. Protocol and his amanuensis got into
76-
a shocking argument about the feasibility of doing a second dive
77-
solo. The argument was interrupted by a commotion at
78-
79-
the stem. A diver who'd gone down solo had had weight belt trouble,
80-
followed by mask flooding, followed by panic, followed by a failed
81-
attempt to breathe sea water. They were (bragging her onto the exit
82-
platform, a steel grating just below the surface that divers can exit
83-
onto, in order to stand up and remove their fins before climbing the
84-
ladder onto the boat. She was fine but not happy. That was it for
85-
diving that day. Mr. Protocol was unbearably smug, in that
86-
solemn-faced way that so endears him to us all.
87-
88-
Another dose of Dram amine and. I spent the return journey in my
89-
bunk. Mr. Protocol was up in the galley reading dive magazines to find
90-
ever more exciting places to go practice safety drills.
91-
92-
We returned to the slip around 5PM. After debating the best way to get
93-
the gear back to the car, the nearby lot still being full, I declared
94-
for the macho solution and wore my weight belt, tank and buoyancy
95-
compensator, while carrying my dive bag containing wetsuit, mask,
96-
fins, gloves, hood, etc. back to the car. It compared favorably with
97-
taking a walk on the surface of Jupiter, but not by much. I drove home
98-
alone. I had thrown Mr. Protocol off the boat in the deepest part of
99-
the passage. He’s used to that by now.
100-
101-
Mike O’Brien May 26, 1987
1+
# APPENDIX I: Mr Protocol Soaks His Head
2+
3+
## May 26, 1987
4+
5+
Mr. Protocol, having recently become a certified scuba diver (and
6+
there are those among us who believe he’s been certifiable for years),
7+
recently signed aboard the Good Ship Cee Ray for a diving trip to
8+
Santa Catalina Island. Perforce, his amanuensis (my own long-suffering
9+
self) went along. Mr. Protocol’s natural sunny good cheer got him off
10+
to a good start for a 7AM boat departure; I very nearly underwent
11+
adrenocortical burnout when the alarm went off at 4:30.
12+
13+
The trip to San Pedro was uneventful, and directions to the boat
14+
landing were, for a wonder, adequate. Naturally, I did the
15+
driving. Mr. Protocol does not drive as Los Angeles driving protocol
16+
is incompletely specified. For similar reasons, Mr. Protocol refuses
17+
even to go out on the street in New York City.
18+
19+
After noting that the parking lot was full, I parked the car by the
20+
curb right near the sign saying “NO STOPPING ANY TIME” (ignoring
21+
Mr. P’s anguished cries), together with the other twenty people who
22+
were unloading tanks, buoyancy compensators, gear bags, etc. onto the
23+
sidewalk. This, I suppose, comes of going to a boat landing on Sunday
24+
of Memorial Day weekend, when all the boat owners have been out and
25+
away since Saturday. After carting the gear to the boat, I moved the
26+
car to a lot down the street Carting the gear took several
27+
trips. While Mr. Protocol is in substantial equipoise at any depth,
28+
Mikey wears a 43 (forty-three) pound weight belt, which makes
29+
gear-lugging a substantial proposition. We signed in and hung out
30+
after claiming bunk space. Except for Mr. Protocol, of course. He
31+
never sleeps.
32+
33+
The boat left the dock right around 7AM. It left the breakwater around
34+
7:25, and then things got interesting. There is a saying, “If you can
35+
see Catalina from the mainland, don’t go. It’s too rough." Well, we
36+
couldn’t see Catalina, but it was still pretty rough. Mr. Protocol, of
37+
course, spent most of the 2-hour trip standing in the bow of the boat,
38+
rolling with the swells and whistling “Blow the Man Down.” I spent the
39+
trip in the stem of the boat, eyes fixed on the horizon line and
40+
hoping that the Dramamine would kick in before the adrenochrome wore
41+
off. It was a hazy trip.
42+
43+
We anchored in Starlight Cove, at the rear (landward) side of the
44+
island, which was the lee side that day. The cove blocked the
45+
swells. Unfortunately the only dive partner I could find for the first
46+
dive was a student in a class, so I spent the first dive watching
47+
people do pathological things to their equipment at forty feet. I
48+
refused to consider Mr. Protocol as a dive buddy for several
49+
reasons. 1) Mr. Protocol is uncomfortable with a term as familiar as
50+
“buddy.” 2) It is very difficult to actually get any sightseeing done
51+
when diving with Mr. Protocol, as all he ever does is go through
52+
safety protocol. After awhile you get tired of continually clearing
53+
your mask and changing to your second regulator, etc. And I flat-out
54+
refuse to practice an emergency buoyant ascent It’s sort of like
55+
hyperspace: sometimes you don’t come out 3) Many people are
56+
uncomfortable letting me dive with a buddy that no one else can see.
57+
58+
By this time I was thinking that this trip was a bust Mr. Protocol,
59+
ever the indefatigable optomist, counselled waiting for the second
60+
dive location. Lo and behold, for that dive an honest-to-goodness
61+
certified-but-novice diver, just like myself, was looking for a
62+
partner. The second location, Stony Point, was a cove like the first,
63+
but with more kelp. Now, a genuine kelp forest is a riot of life. We
64+
saw garibaldi. Hard to miss them. They’re bright orange fish about 6”
65+
long and highly territorial They come right up to your mask and say
66+
“Who dat?” They refuse to leave you alone. You swim around in a
67+
veritable cloud of garibaldi. No, they don’t bite. We saw starfish. We
68+
saw urchins. We saw garibaldi eating an abalone. We saw sea fans and
69+
sponges and cucumbers. Hard to miss the cucumbers. The whole bottom
70+
looks like someone emptied a vat of dill pickles. You pick them up and
71+
they turn into dill footballs. All the while we were swimming through
72+
a forest of giant kelp, which resemble nothing so much as the giant
73+
redwoods of Sequoia, in effect if not in actual appearance.
74+
75+
After returning to the boat, Mr. Protocol and his amanuensis got into
76+
a shocking argument about the feasibility of doing a second dive
77+
solo. The argument was interrupted by a commotion at
78+
79+
the stem. A diver who'd gone down solo had had weight belt trouble,
80+
followed by mask flooding, followed by panic, followed by a failed
81+
attempt to breathe sea water. They were (bragging her onto the exit
82+
platform, a steel grating just below the surface that divers can exit
83+
onto, in order to stand up and remove their fins before climbing the
84+
ladder onto the boat. She was fine but not happy. That was it for
85+
diving that day. Mr. Protocol was unbearably smug, in that
86+
solemn-faced way that so endears him to us all.
87+
88+
Another dose of Dram amine and. I spent the return journey in my
89+
bunk. Mr. Protocol was up in the galley reading dive magazines to find
90+
ever more exciting places to go practice safety drills.
91+
92+
We returned to the slip around 5PM. After debating the best way to get
93+
the gear back to the car, the nearby lot still being full, I declared
94+
for the macho solution and wore my weight belt, tank and buoyancy
95+
compensator, while carrying my dive bag containing wetsuit, mask,
96+
fins, gloves, hood, etc. back to the car. It compared favorably with
97+
taking a walk on the surface of Jupiter, but not by much. I drove home
98+
alone. I had thrown Mr. Protocol off the boat in the deepest part of
99+
the passage. He’s used to that by now.
100+
101+
Mike O’Brien May 26, 1987

‎ask-mr-protocol-nr-1.md

+75-25
Original file line numberDiff line numberDiff line change
@@ -1,25 +1,75 @@
1-
# ASK MR. PROTOCOL (#1)
2-
3-
## November 1, 1984
4-
5-
I am sure that there are many among us who remember the early days of networking, when the general feeling was that anything which could be shipped over a piece of copper wire was fair game. I am equally sure that there are many among us who know of networks where such is still the case. Our own networking world, however, has reached a level of civilization sufficient to admit of a certain amount of politesse.
6-
7-
Correct social behavior at the network level is in many ways more important than in the so* called “real” world. In everyday life, a sufficiently gross social blunder will sometimes mean that people will not speak to you. In the networking world, a gross protocol blunder invariably means that people will not speak to you.
8-
9-
Mr. Protocol is an arbiter of excruciatingly correct network behavior. It is his belief that in a more perfect world, correct adherence to all the nuances of network protocol will smooth away the vicissitudes of network life. He invites your questions and comments and will attempt to deal fairly with all comers (as is his wont).
10-
11-
• • • •
12-
13-
Q: Who writes these protocols, anyway?
14-
15-
A: Certainly not Mr. Protocol. He has spent a lifetime assiduously absorbing all the details of the network protocols, and is far too busy to write any himself. Protocol* are written by true wizards who spend their lifetimes figuring out how these things actually work. RFC’s (Requests for Comments) are the typical means for promulgating protocol standards. Mr. Protocol thinks that issuing rules as “Requests for Comments” is the soul of gentility. Copies of any RFC which one might want to read, together with an index of all RFC’s, are available from the CIC (of course).
16-
17-
• • • •
18-
19-
Q: What’s the biggest thing I can mail?
20-
21-
A: How long can you talk? Mr. Protocol believes that PhoneNet is designed to allow people to exchange mail, and is distressed by the various attempts to use it to itemize the national debt. While he recognizes the need to send chip descriptions to giant fabrication systems, he regards the use of a 1200 baud connection to do so with some degree of distress. Sending a multi-megabyte chip description file through the Relay at 1200 baud is about as polite as using the public address system on a crowded Greyhound bus to discuss the internal politics of Acapulco’s city government for five solid hours • which is about how long it takes to transmit such a file. Mr. Protocol also recognizes with some dismay that the gentle folk at the CIC have not always made it perfectly clear that this is the case. He therefore wishes it to be made known that any file larger than about 100,000 bytes should be regarded as “large.” A one-megabyte data file is regarded in some circles as “moby,” but Mr. Protocol never uses such language.
22-
23-
It is distressing to note that there appear to be gremlins in the telephone system which search gleefully for such lengthy telephone exchanges and break them • but only after they have been underway for some hours. Mr. Protocol ventures to suggest that in a more perfect world, there must be a better way. There are a large number of unemployed Olympic torch runners at the moment. Hiring one of these and handing him or her a magnetic tape would be faster and more certain than the current scheme.
24-
25-
If for some reason this proves unsatisfactory, or if there is reason to believe that the transfer will actually work, or if there is some degree of urgency (!), Mr. Protocol suggests a conversation with the CIC to reach the best solution possible in the given situation. On the grounds that an invasion of thousands of mice is preferable to an invasion by an elephant, it might be suggested that a single very large message be broken down into several smaller messages and reassembled at the destination.
1+
# ASK MR. PROTOCOL (#1)
2+
3+
## November 1, 1984
4+
5+
I am sure that there are many among us who remember the early days of
6+
networking, when the general feeling was that anything which could be
7+
shipped over a piece of copper wire was fair game. I am equally sure
8+
that there are many among us who know of networks where such is still
9+
the case. Our own networking world, however, has reached a level of
10+
civilization sufficient to admit of a certain amount of politesse.
11+
12+
Correct social behavior at the network level is in many ways more
13+
important than in the so* called “real” world. In everyday life, a
14+
sufficiently gross social blunder will sometimes mean that people will
15+
not speak to you. In the networking world, a gross protocol blunder
16+
invariably means that people will not speak to you.
17+
18+
Mr. Protocol is an arbiter of excruciatingly correct network
19+
behavior. It is his belief that in a more perfect world, correct
20+
adherence to all the nuances of network protocol will smooth away the
21+
vicissitudes of network life. He invites your questions and comments
22+
and will attempt to deal fairly with all comers (as is his wont).
23+
24+
• • • •
25+
26+
Q: Who writes these protocols, anyway?
27+
28+
A: Certainly not Mr. Protocol. He has spent a lifetime assiduously
29+
absorbing all the details of the network protocols, and is far too
30+
busy to write any himself. Protocol* are written by true wizards who
31+
spend their lifetimes figuring out how these things actually
32+
work. RFC’s (Requests for Comments) are the typical means for
33+
promulgating protocol standards. Mr. Protocol thinks that issuing
34+
rules as “Requests for Comments” is the soul of gentility. Copies of
35+
any RFC which one might want to read, together with an index of all
36+
RFC’s, are available from the CIC (of course).
37+
38+
• • • •
39+
40+
Q: What’s the biggest thing I can mail?
41+
42+
A: How long can you talk? Mr. Protocol believes that PhoneNet is
43+
designed to allow people to exchange mail, and is distressed by the
44+
various attempts to use it to itemize the national debt. While he
45+
recognizes the need to send chip descriptions to giant fabrication
46+
systems, he regards the use of a 1200 baud connection to do so with
47+
some degree of distress. Sending a multi-megabyte chip description
48+
file through the Relay at 1200 baud is about as polite as using the
49+
public address system on a crowded Greyhound bus to discuss the
50+
internal politics of Acapulco’s city government for five solid hours •
51+
which is about how long it takes to transmit such a file. Mr. Protocol
52+
also recognizes with some dismay that the gentle folk at the CIC have
53+
not always made it perfectly clear that this is the case. He therefore
54+
wishes it to be made known that any file larger than about 100,000
55+
bytes should be regarded as “large.” A one-megabyte data file is
56+
regarded in some circles as “moby,” but Mr. Protocol never uses such
57+
language.
58+
59+
It is distressing to note that there appear to be gremlins in the
60+
telephone system which search gleefully for such lengthy telephone
61+
exchanges and break them - but only after they have been underway for
62+
some hours. Mr. Protocol ventures to suggest that in a more perfect
63+
world, there must be a better way. There are a large number of
64+
unemployed Olympic torch runners at the moment. Hiring one of these
65+
and handing him or her a magnetic tape would be faster and more
66+
certain than the current scheme.
67+
68+
If for some reason this proves unsatisfactory, or if there is reason
69+
to believe that the transfer will actually work, or if there is some
70+
degree of urgency (!), Mr. Protocol suggests a conversation with the
71+
CIC to reach the best solution possible in the given situation. On the
72+
grounds that an invasion of thousands of mice is preferable to an
73+
invasion by an elephant, it might be suggested that a single very
74+
large message be broken down into several smaller messages and
75+
reassembled at the destination.

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