"Oh my God, are you... are you Joseph Gordon-Levitt?" His face lit up the cereal aisle like a light bulb. "Uh, no, I'm not," I said. "But thanks. He's a good-looking guy."

"No, you're totally him," the man said. "I'm Alex, Alex Winger. It is such a pleasure to meet you. I loved you in that movie, the one where you and Bruce Willis fought."

"Oh, you mean, um," I snapped a couple times, "uh, Looper? I thought that one was all right. But again, really, I'm not Joseph Gordon-Levitt."

"I get it, I get it." Alex bobbed his head. "You're trying to keep a low profile." He leaned in and whispered conspiratorially. "I won't give you away."

"Thanks," I said, "but I'm really not him. My name's—"

"Oh, I get it, I get it, no worries." He looked in my cart. "Hemorrhoid cream?"

"Uh, yeah?"

"No worries, Joe, no worries." He backed away, smiling. I turned back to the cereal, then heard the snap of a camera phone. He was gone before I turned around.

The next day, the Enquirer's front page read "Joseph Gordon-Levitt on Fire — in the Rear!" Somehow, I felt I owed Gordon-Levitt an apology.