It was late -- probably past 2 AM, knowing Mike's and my absurd hours. Mike was pacing our living room while I sat on the couch, both of us trying to work through some writing problem so crazy that the answer could only work itself out when any normal people in the area had already given in to good sense and gone to sleep. Mike was in the middle of a potentially world-changing sentence when we heard it from the street below.

"Mmrraaawwwwwwwwwwwww!"

An otherworldly yelp. The type of bizarre noise an animal makes only when it's thrown into an extraordinarily bad circumstance. And given our recent experiences, there was only one answer:

"The raccoon just killed a cat," I said.

And it was clear that that was the answer. The raccoon had tasted its first victim a few yards away from our doorstep. Thankfully, it was only a cat. God only knows what would've happened had some wayward latchkey kid been wandering the mean streets of Westwood at this unfortunate hour.

Now, someone else might say, "But there are literally thousands of other reasons that an animal might make a noise you've never heard before. How did you know it was the raccoon at fault, Tim? And how did you even know it was a cat that was being attacked? If it was really that bizarre a sound, it could've been anything!"

To which I respond: I am the friend of the animals. You see, my middle name is Francis. For those of you who were raised Catholic or majored in religious studies at school, you know that St. Francis of Assisi was the patron saint of animals. As a result, I am linked to all wildlife. Their concerns are my concerns, and vice versa. For instance, if I am really hungry, I know that there is a cow out there saying, "I really want to help Tim out. Could someone please come by and make me into a delicious burger for him?" And so it is. Likewise, when my animal brethren are terrorized by a vicious predator, I feel their fear for their own well-being. So when I hear a bizarre, vaguely feline yelp from outside my window in the dead of the night, I know without hesitation the source of the noise. And the source of the noise in this case was raccoon violence.

Also, how could the raccoon NOT be behind it? It is the size of a Toyota Yaris and maintains a swagger. I defy you to prove to me that it is not the most likely cause of nocturnal cat death.

You also might ask, "Tim, if you're linked to all animals, then why can't you just communicate with the raccoon to find out where he is and what he's doing? Wouldn't this be the best way to solve all of these problems?" This happens to be a stupid question that does not dignify an answer. I will therefore ignore it and leave you hanging by your anxious fingertips to the edge of the towering spire of tension and paranoid fear that is Raccoon Blog.

Ever since news of the vicious raccoon attacks in Olympia, Washington crossed our coffee-stained, dust-covered desks, Tim, Loren, and I haven't left our apartment building after 7pm. Who knew the King Raccoon could be training a gang of followers, preparing themselves in the park across the street, behind the Federal building, like terrorists at an Al Qaeda training camp? When will they be prepared to strike, ready to unleash their reign of terror? Sensing we're on the verge of a full on outbreak of attacks, we've decided it's better to play it safe and stay inside - at least until the lead pipe I ordered can arrive in the mail. I would have overnighted it, but I don't have the money thanks to the hospital bills I've had to pay to try and figure out why I have floaters in my vitreous gel. During all of this, my paranoia has increased. I swear, at times that the black streaks that float by my eyes aren't dark strings at all, but raccoons dashing across the street, on their way to maim a pregnant Yorkshire Terrier.

In the past day, I've been frantically trying to get ahold of the Olympia Raccoon Watch to ask for their help in setting up a splinter group. My hope is to stop the raccoons in Westwood before the situation escalates (although we've lost one cat already...the episode is too difficult for me, personaly, to relay. I'll let Tim, a stronger person than myself, tell the story of "Mike and Tim hear the raccoon kill a cat"). Unfortunately, I've been unable to get contact info for any of the people mentioned in the article, including the presumably legendary Tom Brown, who's in charge of trapping the urban raccoons. He is, undoubtedly a brave man that I would be honored to meet - even if it was just on MySpace.

I will continue to try to get ahold of the Olympia Raccoon Watch to ask for their advice and possibly arrange a visit. Until then, we are on our own and I am awaiting my lead pipe. May God bless us all.

We interrupt this taut serial drama to bring you a special bulletin titled "We told you so."

OLYMPIA, Washington (AP) -- A fierce group of raccoons has killed 10 cats, attacked a small dog and bitten at least one pet owner who had to get rabies shots, residents of Olympia say.
Some have taken to carrying pepper spray to ward off the masked marauders and the woman who was bitten now carries an iron pipe when she goes outside at night.

''It's a new breed,'' said Tamara Keeton, who with Kari Hall started a raccoon watch after an emotional neighborhood meeting drew 40 people. ''They're urban raccoons, and they're not afraid.''

Tony Benjamins, whose family lost two cats, said he got a big dog -- a German Shepherd-Rottweiler mix -- to keep the raccoons away.

One goal of the patrol is to get residents to stop feeding raccoons and to keep pets and pet food indoors.

Lisann Rolle said she began carrying an iron pipe when she goes outside at night after being bitten by raccoons when she tried to pull three of them off her cat Lucy. She obtained rabies shots afterward as a precaution.

''I was watching her like a hawk, but she snuck out,'' Rolle said. ''Then I heard this hideous sound -- a coyote-type high pitch ... It was vicious. They were focused on ripping her apart.''
The attacks have been especially shocking because raccoons came within five feet (1 1/2 meters) of cats without any problem in previous years, Benjamins said.

''We used to love the raccoons. They'd have their babies this time of year, and they were so cute. Even though we lived in the city, it was neat to have wildlife around,'' he said, ''but this year, things changed. They went nuts.''

In one case five raccoons tried to carry off a small dog, which managed to survive.
The attacks, all within a three-block area near the Garfield Nature Trail in Olympia, are highly unusual, said Sean O. Carrell, a problem wildlife coordinator with the state Department of Fish and Wildlife, adding that trappers may be summoned from the U.S. Department of Agriculture to remove problem animals.

''I've never heard a report of 10 cats being killed. It's something were going to have to monitor,'' Carrell said.

Meanwhile, residents have hired Tom Brown, a nuisance wildlife control operator from Rochester, Washington, to set traps, but in six weeks he has caught only one raccoon. He and Carrell said raccoons teach their young -- and each other -- to avoid traps.

Brown said he had seen packs of raccoons this big but none so into killing.

''They are in command up there,'' he said.

That's right: The New York Times and the fear-stricken greater Olympia community have confirmed that Mike, Loren, and I are on the front lines of a potential Cujo/Pet Sematary situation here in Westwood. We live one city block away from a park where these urban raccoons are likely multiplying by the minute, training one another how to avoid traps, and hatching the types of high-level cooperative attack plans familiar to anyone in our generation who had nightmares about raptors after they saw Jurassic Park. I mean seriously, are you picturing the sight of five fucking raccoons bum-rushing some unsuspecting pooch and dragging the thing away into the broad daylight? How fucked up is that? I would be less freaked out if an actual vampire hopped out of a coffin and sucked out some hapless passerby's carotid artery in front of me. At least then I could be like, "Oh, that's a vampire. Where's a cross and a stake? I'm knocking this fucker out." Or alternatively, "Oh, that's a vampire. Where's my apartment key? I'm running like a maniac back to my apartment, where I know he can't cross the threshold unless I invite him in."

All I'm saying is that no matter how terrifying it would be to see an established monster on your block, at least there are rules. Vampire? Stake him. Zombie? Knock off the head. Werewolf? Chuck a can of Coors Light at him.

But a pack of "urban raccoons"? How do you stop that? Poison garbage? Some gung-ho animal trapper? No tranq gun is getting the job done, I can tell you that much. And they're probably too feisty to be hit with any normal power firearm. After reading this article, I half believe that even if you were to hit one of them with a bullet, the damn thing would either absorb it like the Blob and get bigger and meaner, or some spidery alien life form would just jump out of the exit wound, clamp onto your face like a plunger, and suck your brain out through your eye sockets.

My point is: the raccoon running amok here in Westwood is likely the mother of all of the breed to come, and if we can't stop her now, this neighborhood will turn into the fucking Twilight Zone by Thanksgiving. We need back-up.

Three animals that mean a lot to me.


*Note: The raccoon pictured is not THE raccoon. It doesn't snow in LA. Also, if you are confused by this blog, please read the previous post. Thank you for your time.

After Tim had witnessed the raccoon and his red carpet stroll, there was only one person left in the apartment for me to convince -- Loren (previously labeled by Tim as 'Mike's girlfriend'). Like Tim, Loren had, at some point, decided that I tell tall tales. This makes very little sense to me. If a young man is driving home, to Ohio, with his dad from New York City after a particularly worthless career fair and a particularly special George W. Bush press conference (The one in which he dropped such pearls as "Sadaam is an evil man. He gassed his own people." And, "After all, this is the man who tried to kill my dad.") and they stop at a rest stop in Pennsylvania at one in the morning out of pure exhaustion and there happens to be an Amish Family who's also stopped at that rest stop and if that Amish Family happens to have a goat with them, how is that the aforementioned young man's fault? Or, if the same young man is at a secluded beach and he sees two sharks bounding in and out of the water and if one of the sharks decides it wants to leap out of the water and bite the fin off of the other shark, how is that a tall tale? It is, I would argue, the wonder of life that the magic of life happens in front of some people's eyes more than others. It's a paradox then, possibly a case of serendipity, that Loren had a more magical encounter with the raccoon than both me and Tim.

It was dark outside. Tim and I were studying teenage American culture, i.e. watching "Next" or "Parental Control" on MTV inside the apartment. Loren excused herself and headed down the stairwell to smoke a cigarette on the stoop outside our building. When she got to the stoop, she prepared to sit down but then heard a commotion in the bushes. She held her ground, stayed ready...and out from the bushes came...the raccoon. He looked into Loren's eyes and held his ground equally as well as she did. (Later, Loren would describe his look as a look of "longing" - but longing for what? The racccoon already ruled the neighborhood.) And then, the unthinkable happened. The raccoon began to approach her. This behavior is grotesquely unlike the behavior of normal raccoons, who tend to flee at the sight of humans faster than Superman, who himself is faster than a speeding bullet. Unwilling to confront the raccoon in such a closed space, or perhaps, unwilling to confront the raccoon at all, Loren bolted backed inside the stairwell. In this case, the raccoon had triumphed. He had made a statement - he, not Loren, owned the territory surrounding our apartment building.

It wasn't until days later, maybe not even until the moment that I wrote this sentence that I wondered, "Maybe the raccoon wasn't trying to provoke a confrontation. Maybe he wanted to start a dialogue. Or maybe he just wanted a smoke."

Mike was right: I did think he was full of shit. This is mostly because Mike has a history of tall tales involving goats at truck stops and squids being bombed by helicopters in the Pacific Ocean. If my dad was here, he'd back me up on this. Then my mom would probably bake someone some cookies.

Anyhow, the Saturday after Mike started running his mouth about this enormous hypothetical raccoon, I went out with a friend of mine for an innocent Saturday night of sushi and Kirin Ichiban. The LA Film Festival was going on, which I remember particularly well because we went to eat at a restaurant near enough to the hang-out of a hobo so belligerent and crazy that he probably deserves his own blog (www.belligerentbum.blogspot.com coming soon), and it was clear that for the rest of the week, he had been relocated so he didn't bite some hipster film geek in the pulmonary artery.

So the night's winding down. My friend is ready to drive herself back home when she discovers that she left the key to her Club back at her house. So after nearly throwing up out of sheer embarrassment, she swallows her pride enough to allow me to drive her back to Venice to get the Club key, run her back to Westwood to pick up her car, and then go home. Mind you, I've had a really rough week, and I'm tired as shit, and the last thing I really want to be doing is driving to Venice at 1 AM. But I'm a saint.

Fast forward to 2 AM. I've just dropped my friend at her car and waited to make sure that she's good (side note: it would've been hysterical if her car would've gotten stolen in the mean time). I'm practically ready to pass out at the wheel. I'm circling the block to get back to my garage when I get locked up at a stop light on Veteran and Ohio. It's one of those situations where you're just sitting at the light, you're the only fucking person on the road, and you're like, "This is stupid. I'm sitting at this light, and I'm the only fucking person on the road."

And just as I'm about to bust a highly illegal, completely renegade, ultra bad-ass left turn -- something catches my eye out of the left side of the windshield.

Like a championship fighter entering the ring to a standing ovation, a raccoon roughly the size of your average suitcase bounds across the street ten yards from my car. He makes no effort to stay out of the range of my headlights. He makes no effort to speed up once he knows that I've seen him. No, he takes his time. And I watch, frozen at a green light, as he casually makes his way across the tree lawn and directly up the back staircase of some unsuspecting apartment building -- probably getting ready to rob them of all of their gold.

Now you may ask yourself, "Tim, I thought raccoons just ate garbage and whatnot. Why would a raccoon steal gold from an apartment building?"

If that's your thought process, and you live in the LA area, here's a tip for you: find a better place to hide your gold. Cause I'm not saying that the racoon necessarily wants your gold. But if he does, I'll tell you this: he's taking it.

Holy shit. Mike was telling the truth. There's a monster in the neighborhood.

It was about 7:30pm on a week night when I first saw it. I walked out of my apartment building. I was on my way to the gym. I headed up the street and noticed something move like a cat towards an old Isuzu Trooper. I looked again -- the animal was too massive to be a cat. I immediately started crossing the street. I looked again. The creature was at least as big as a dog...I moved more quickly...and finally it registered. It was a raccoon. Not in the thick of the woods but in the middle of Westwood. Not in the middle of the night but just before the sun had begun to set. In case you didn't know, raccoons are nocturnal creatures by nature. Was it rabid? It didn't appear to be, as it quickly scurried underneath the Isuzu to take shelter (in retrospect, the fact that the raccoon was out in the daylight was merely an indiction of its swagger). As I walked faster up the other side of the street, I saw the raccoon lunge out from under the SUV and dash across the sidewalk towards the gated parking garage of another apartment building, where it plunged through a pair of bars that looked as if they'd been bent for this exact reason...to let the King of Westwood into his lair. Hardly able to believe what I just witnessed, I proceeded to the gym, burnt like 750 calories on the elliptical and walked a cautious walk home, eyes peeled for the raccoon. Fortunately, I made it home safely. When I got back to the apartment I relayed the events of the evening to Loren and Tim ("I saw a fucking raccoon! He hid under a car and then he ran into the parking garage!). Their response? Something like, "Mike, you're full of shit."

Hi. This is Mike. I should probably introduce myself to the blog by saying that I am terrified of creatures. In fact, when I created my user name for the raccoon blog it was a toss up between "lookatthatfuckingthing!" and "terrified." Ultimately, "lookatthatfuckingthing!" won because it contained the f-word. Even house pets make me nervous, so you can imagine how I felt when I came across an urban raccoon. I think this fear of animals stems from when I used to run around town to stay in shape and inevitably someone's dog would attack me. This happened to me a few times while I was going to college in New York City -- one dog lept at me, fangs open, and ripped my Shaq O'Neal t-shirt, while I tumbled to the ground -- but I was always in the most danger in Amherst, Ohio where I grew up because a lot of dog owners there didn't believe in using leashes. After 9 years of running scared from vicious canines, I finally smartened up and joined a gym...which is where I was heading the night I became the very first person to see the raccoon...

I don't know that the raccoon can wield a machete like this poor bastard in a suit, but if he could, he would be even more intimidating than he is currently. And that's saying something.

Welcome to the first installment of Raccoon Blog. For those of you who don't know me personally, I live in a neighborhood that is owned by a raccoon roughly the size of an adolescent Kodiak bear. I don't mean that in some kind of surrealist/allegorical way. I'm not one of those people who just writes a bunch of bizarre shit that intermingles mythical beasts, their own personal lives, poorly interpreted philosophy, and random items like toothpaste and india ink. Negative. When I say that this raccoon owns the neighborhood, I mean the fucking thing goes where he wants, when he wants. He has no fear of people. And as I asserted while walking home from a bar Saturday night, he could eat most dogs. Mostly because he has a swagger.

Over the next few days, I will bring this blog up to speed on the encounters my brother, his girlfriend, and I personally have had with the raccoon up to this point. Once that's done, I will continue to update with any new sightings/encounters, as well as posting a bunch of half-boiled speculations as to where the raccoon came from, what he thinks he's doing, and how long his reign of terror will last. If I'm really lucky, I may even manage to snap a photo or two of this beast. Stay tuned. Raccoon Blog will be your new "Lost" in no time.