A haircut downtown in the City Center at ten and so there's not enough time to finish and then post yesterday's bloated run on entry before leaving, knowing we probably won't spend the time necessary to get it in proper shape when I return. I have been, after all, grumbling about lack of time, sense and effort to get them into better shape in the first place, but then this is probably the hundredth time I've said and done this very same thing. Thus far, so bad.

Later. A bus to the ATM on Broadway on a clear sunny morning, a walk then to the haircut appointment arriving some three minutes before ten. Good. The hair is now more manageable. Not manageable, it's never been manageable, but more so. Which is good. Good is good.

A walk up to the bagel shop for a pastry and coffee, a walk then to the bus stop and then home to finish yesterday's entry before heading out again with a camera to check the construction site.

The boring machine has been making progress, one of the pictures showing what it's been doing, driving in a reinforcement bar and a pipe of some kind that sits right below it. I think it's a pipe. Drilled straight into the hill, but to what purpose? I may break down and ask.

A walk then over to the lake to again find Hank feeding along the shore. No sign of the Brown Pelicans, but a series of pictures of Hank as he swam by. Good. Pictures. Back to the apartment. Maybe a nap, maybe something more. An early lunch. A trip to Moscow.

Later still. What for lunch? A walk to the local 7-11 look-alike for a bag of chipotle peanuts, about a thousand calories from reading the packet if you're insensitive enough to eat the whole thing. Which I did. No question about it. One or two more pictures, back now to take a look at Matt Taibbi's The Divide that arrived today in the mail. Great introductory chapter, I'm looking forward to reading it.

Evening. Nothing again on television, the Wednesday-Thursday Korean epic coming to a close. I've watched more than some of it with obvious frustration. Instructive from the a how to structure one of these things standpoint, but I've never been in the mood to write a television series, epic or otherwise. Might have been of some use when I was writing the novel (which brings us back to talking about that last five percent to make it happen again).

Another episode of House, more time on the guitar. We're doing OK on the guitar so far, to bed at ten having watched the German police procedural at nine. There was a second episode at ten, but the one at nine was more than enough.

Another woman police detective struggling under the ham fisted hands of male managers. At least she didn't find herself isolated and unarmed in a dark warehouse at midnight filled with malefactors, the writers weren't quite that stupid.