This morning I left work to run to Dunkin Donuts. I ordered a medium capuccino, an onion bagel with cream cheese, and a peanut donut for later. The semiotics of anyplace that hires women and only women to sell big doughy Os could probably bear a little questioning regarding taste and subtlty. Anyway, the doughier clerk who was selling me breakfast went to spread some cream cheese on my bagel and said, "You know who you look like, right?"

"No. Who?"

"That guy from That 70s Show."

"Topher Grace."

The old guy in line next to me said, "You don't have his money."

I looked over and said "I'm working on it. And how do you know, anyway?" After a minute I looked back at the clerk and said, "I get that sometimes, and it's always really flattering, so thanks."

"Don't be sarcastic. I like that show."

She charged me $2.00 for breakfast.

If I'm entitled to one virtually free breakfast just for being Topher Grace's second-order simulacrum, the mind boggles at the amount of free shit to which Topher Grace himself must be entitled.

Baudrillard: "...Then there are no longer any strikes or work, but both simultaneously, that is to say something else entirely: a wizardry of work, a trompe l'oeil, a scenodrama (not to say melodrama) of production, collective dramaturgy upon the empty stage of the social..."

I will write about last weekend later.