Slate, our totally favorite website, where we all desperately want to work some day, looks at the annual statement by the good people at the Committee To Protect Journalists, who report today that 46% of journalists in jail are freelancers-and half of them work online: "A decade ago, when China first topped the list, most of those jailed were print reporters for mainstream media outlets who had gone too far in their criticism of government officials... But online journalists can't be fired, blacklisted, or, in most cases, bought off precisely because most work independently. They don't have employers who can be pressured. Chinese authorities have few options when it comes to reining in online critics-censor them, intimidate them, or throw them in jail. This explains why 18 of the 24 journalists imprisoned in China worked online."

I have a soft spot for graffiti artists. I realize I am one of maybe four people who still give a shit about the art form but I genuinely adore a few of them and take great pleasure in their stories and perusing through their piecebooks. And while I'm sure a couple of them really are vile fingerless glove wearing derelicts who are bloated with street cred while starving to death on building stoops, stinking of diseased pee and dithering about how real New York was SO REAL, others have gone on to becoming brilliant fine artists, making stupid amounts of money, owning property, and having lots to lose. And yet the tie that binds is that there will always be this COMPULSION to get up. Especially when out of town. Especially when out of continent, like if you were being flown out to melanoma land a.k.a. Prison Island a.k.a. Australia, where it feels like law doesn't exist since people are too squat in discipline to say "afternoon" instead saying webbed-toe shit like "arvo." I think it's sort of excusable to think their vandal squad maybe hadn't figured out how to follow you on Twitter. But man, I wish REVOK hadn't Tweeted his exact when and whereabouts. Especially about going to the airport right when he was going to the airport. He could be back in California stuffing his face full of Tim Tams. Stupid fingers.

Whelp, there goes a nice moral rationalization for eating eating seafood. Turns out goldfish recognize and remember pain and dead salmon recognize human facial expressions. (WHAT.) You kinda always suspected, right? I mean, the way lobsters scream when you stab them.