Eat your heart out, Paris Hilton

If ever there was a perfect example of the Alaska sourdough from the mining genre, this guy was that guy. Short and stocky to the point of being bull-chested, he wandered through the aisles of the big box hardware store, looking at this, looking at that. He wore bunny boats and heavy Carhartt pants, a sweater over a wool shirt under a heavy outer jacket that showed the effects of hard wear. He covered his head with one of those round furry hats, with thick ear flaps fastened over the crown, held up for his being indoors. His dark eyes squinted under bushy eyebrows in the bright florescent light of the warehouse and his beard overflowed his jacket spilling out over the sweater and coat in shades of black and gray and white. He turned and looked at a fellow shopper gauging his worth and evidently deciding this one was not going to be any help. But, as he did, one of those cute little poufy dogs like the celebrities are always carrying, peeked out from underneath the jacket and the beard. Its coloring gave it almost perfect camouflage against the beard. The man gently scratched the dog's head while he turned away to continue on down the row of electrical materials seemingly without another thought. No worries. Dog or no dog this was not the kind of man paparazzi pursued and if they had, well, lord help them.