The week: it has occured. It completely happened. Is it over for you? It ends for me on Friday, and starts again on Monday, and in between are the Limbo Days, neither fish nor fowl. They are particularly difficult in this newly singled existence, but I've hopes for this next allotment. Monday should have some new stuff, if everything goes right.

For now, detritus and an extravaganza of end-of-the-month AI credit burning.

I clicked on a link for a story I wanted to read, and this is what I got:

		Oh look: another one of those web ads that appear in seventeen different varieties, all selling the same junk with breathless hype.

I HEARD YOU LIKE BISONS ON YOUR BISONS

Note: Whiskey not included. Related:

		It's a Fourth of July miracle

Note: Whiskey not included.It's for the teachers who built America:

This 250th anniversary isn't for the elite. It's for the teachers, the veterans, the neighbors, and the families who built this nation. Discover why the Ribili "We The People" decanter is becoming the most meaningful way for ordinary Americans to celebrate 2026.

It’s Not About Kings or Presidents. It’s About Us. Why the "We The People" 250 Decanter is the True Spirit of America’s Birthday.

YOUR STATE. We know this about YOUR STATE.

You just had to know you were going to get one of these.

Another one of the fake stories about a master craftsperson who's finally giving up and seeing their stuff.

At 74, Heinrich Weller stands in his workshop in Thuringia. After 43 years, he is about to bring his life's work to an end—yet what weighs on him most is not retirement…but the fate of the birds.

Sonneberg, February.  The workshop is small—no more than five by seven meters. Along the walls hang saws, planes, and carving tools—some of them once belonging to Heinrich's father. In the corner stands an old wood-burning stove, radiating a dry, steady warmth that fills the room.
On the workbench lie half-finished birdhouses: carefully planed oak side panels, and roof shingles that Heinrich is shaping piece by piece with a carving knife.

He gently runs his hand across a piece of wood he is working on.

"You know what matters most to me?" he asks without looking up. "Not the workshop. Not retiring." He pauses. "It's that it's getting quieter outside. Every year, quieter than the last.”

Because the birds are going away. Or his hearing is getting worse/.

He ages four years in seconds if you click the other ad:

Slightly different story:

In a small workshop in Asheville, Henry Bennett is finishing what he says will be the last birdhouses he ever makes. 

He is 78. 

The space hasn't changed much in decades. It's about 16 by 23 feet, with tools lining the walls—saws, planes, chisels—some of them older than his career. A wood-burning stove sits in the corner, keeping the room warm during the colder months. 

On the workbench are several unfinished pieces: solid wood panels, partially assembled boxes, and carefully cut roof sections. He still works every day. Just slower than before. 

After 48 years, he has decided to stop. 

But when asked why, he doesn't talk about age or fatigue. 

"It's the silence," he says. "That's what bothers me." 

See, it's all a lie.

If it’s after the 21st, then I had to burn off my excess AI credits. Some interesting results. As you might know, I like to animate old pictures. But why not colorize them first?

It’s getting better and better. Okay, let’s add ersatz life:

I used the AI to clean up this 1917 plan for Minneapolis . . .

and then asked it to add sunset, lights, streetcars.

This one wasn’t so successful.

I’ve always been fond of this image of Block E.

Let us add color:

And now let’s bring the city back. By mistake I did it twice, which produced eras that seemed 10, 15 years apart. The AI also draws on the signage to reproduce other signs. Cliquot Club was one such brand, although it didn't understand it completely.

I have many shots of the old Bum District, and thought it would be easy enough to imagine what they looked like.

I only asked Grok to go inside, and it made up a whole story.

This was the site for the bus station that turned into the nightclub seen in Prince's Purple Rain.

I used a colorized version of the new 1930s station, and set it as the last frame to see what would happen. The old buildings give way to the streamline Moderne of the new bus station.

A publicity photo from the opening of the Sheraton-Ritz, a Gateway project that was torn down a long time ago.

The waitress has gone mad:

I found an old photo I'd taken when I lived at 718.

Ahh. Takes me back. But I have no good interior shots, so we can never go inside.