Nothing about Carl Hiaasen's outward appearance suggests eccentricity. I've seen him described as having the air of 'an amiable dentist' or 'a pleasant jeweler' or 'a patrician country lawyer.' He is soft-spoken, courteous, and plainly dressed. The mischief is mostly detectable in his eyes, which he'll widen to express disbelief or judgment, or cast sideways to invite a companion to join him on his wavelength, raising his brows for effect. Every so often, he'll say something that serves as a reminder of why his name has become synonymous with Florida Weird. We were eating turkey sandwiches at his kitchen table one afternoon earlier this year when Hiaasen told me about Rocky I and Rocky II, the pet raccoons he kept in the 1970s. Raccoons, he told me, resist discipline. 'You can't address them as you would a dog,' he said, 'because they take it personally.' Things reached a breaking point with Rocky I when the raccoon climbed a bookshelf and tried to pry from the wall the first...
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