Shit is happening.

Well, the world's a mess, but there's no reason that Iran should.

Go on ahead and read up:

Timeline of major events in Iran and explanation detailing their Rubik's Cube governance system:

http://community.livejournal.com/ontd_political/3354654.html

Twitters you should follow:

http://twitter.com/ProtesterHelp
http://twitter.com/NextRevolution

And something to stop you from unintentionally killing someone:

http://www.boingboing.net/2009/06/16/cyberwar-guide-for-i.html

Shit is happening in Iran and the least we could do is at least follow it with the power of the Interwebs. To quote the fervent, boiling-over-with-righteous-fury Iran election guru Abbeh:

"The revolution will not be televised, it will be tweeted."

A Trek To and Through

He walked, or rather waded, through the thick, sticky air. Stickiness wasn't a property that you'd commonly associated with air, but unorthodox as it was, this air knew its stickiness inside out. That is, inside and outside of buildings. Even within the giant refrigerator that doubled as a shopping mall, the stickiness of the air was still there, but merely masked underneath the skin's mutually exclusive nature when it came to feeling stickiness and coldness.

He walked past a food court, where the scent of freshly cooked omelette creeped its way through the viscous atmosphere, and found its way to his nostrils. He took a deep, hospitable breath, but timed it wrong and inhaled just as he walked past the nearby dumpster. His lungs quickly kicked out the stinking, drunken stench out of the respectable premises of his respiratory system.

He wasn't here to skulk around the bins though. Where he was headed to was the park just across the road, which also doubled as a line drawn between the park and garbage bag territory. Nothing, even smells, passed across that motorway from one side to the other. This agreement was facilitated by the thick mist of exhaust, ensuring that if any smells DID find their way to the other side of the road, the leftovers of ignited gasoline would bury them quickly.

Scaling the overhead bridge, he found himself looking at a tall grey tower, constricted by two red frames of metal that didn't serve any purpose other than to hastily draw attention away from the dull grey. They twisted around the rigid, honest-to-god perfectly vertical slab of grey, but not smoothly in a perfect spiral. They opted for an approximation of a spiral, shooting off in a straight line and then changing direction sharply at a rigid angle. The overall effect was something that sort-of-spiralled, but wasn't too concerned with the details.

He didn't see the two electronic billboards at the side of the tower until he followed the curved path down from the overhead bridge. These boards displayed the sides of dice, and every few seconds or so they jumbled themselves and displayed a different number. He'd known from his previous but equally misguided visits to the park that this was the dice tower, built to administrate the overall board game theme of the park. There was a Ludo garden somewhere off to the left and a Snakes and Ladders trail to the right, but the subtle infusion of plant life into these "boards" meant that no one knew that they were supposed to be life-sized game boards. So everyone tragically assumed that the dice tower's flickering billboards were to be addressed by National Parks, which of course, didn't do anything about the non-existent malfunctions. So the dice tower stood there, faithfully jumbling its electronic dice once every few seconds, but for no reason at all.

He realized that he could see the billboards clearly today, owing to the absence of an easily discernable sun. Today, a glare guard had been fitted over the sky. The normally distinct circular glow of the sun became what the glow of a lightbulb behind a sheet of frosted glass became: a panel of light.

Following no road in particularly except one based on avoiding the groups of indian workers spread out across the park with almost nomadic inconsistency. (It really wasn't so much of a racial thing. He would have avoided groups of chinese workers, or even just chinese people in general, as long as they were bigger than he was. Even if they had been individually smaller than him he would have summed up their body masses while calculating the odds.)

The thought that this geometrically planned picnic mat of nature in a field of concrete and people was a good place to get lost occured to him. Unfortunately the thought had occured to a few other people as well, thus ruining the prospect of getting lost for every one of them.

(Would you look at that! It has been continued! Well, a little bit. I think the tone of writing in the previous paragraphs that I liked so much has slipped under the table and rolled off somewhere to germinate and scoff at meatball trees in a couple of years time.)