What you, dear readers, are missing is that Coffin taunts me every Groundhog Day by e-mail, nudging, prodding, and cajoling me through mockery to take our disagreement public. I am not looking to promote my now six-year-old essay (I have things I can make money from if I were in a self-promotional mood). No, I think the wily Irishman’s scheme, which I fall for every year, alas, is to goad me into giving him an excuse to condemn the movie — and brag about having met Bill Murray.