The memories of those who came of age in the eighties have become a kind of ghastly rummage sale, a tilled up cemetery where icons lay tilted over bones draped in ancient finery. Pork caught a preview of Transformers on Monday, and he claims that it is not, in fact, heresy - but I don't know how calibrated our respective tastes are. I was going to make a statement about how any constantly shifting image could entertain him, enthrall him, command him, until I realized that this viewing was late at night, in the twilight period we call Pork After Hours, when his medication wanes and his blood is frenzied by some dark moon. For him to have focused on anything at any time after nine o'clock is actually high praise.