Last month some coworkers and I paid some sort of tribute to Ingmar Bergman in a series of interoffice e-mails the day after he died. We were just being sarcastic and trying to take our mind off potential layoffs the week after our newspaper was sold to a smaller company, but one of the coworkers edited the e-mails, a la Jefitoblog's Chartburn series, for a blog posting of his own. Some film buffs who left comments appreciated the humor, some didn't. All I know is that when I die I hope someone, somewhere, says of me, "I don't get it. Then again I never get your jokes." Because until that person gets your jokes, you live on, albeit in a very frustrated piece of his or her heart.