Tonight, in keeping with the FTTW halloween theme, we continue on with the same creepy things we have been doing this whole month. But, tonight is different. Tonight we go with weird things. Things that happened to you that make you think you are living in some Bizzrao universe where everything is backwards or just wrong.

turtle gets a cult.

This is a strange one that I never quite understood. I came back from LA and basically rested my head on a bar for six hours a night. It was some seedy bar where all the people who just didn't quite fit in drank and played pool. So I was pretty much at home. I would go outside to smoke every night and run into one guy. An old hippy artist guy. I have no idea why he started to talk to me. He would sit at the end of the bar and get loaded to the point of almost Hulk like alcoholism then tell me I resemble Charles Manson.

Please keep in mind I don't look anything like Charles Manson.

But he always said I have the ability to control people and my words are always the correct way to live.

Please keep in mind I was a fall down drunk at the time so my words were probably about cartoons being sucky nowadays.

He brought more of his artist friends in every day to meet me. More coming in. They sat and watched me. Like 15 or so people walking out to the parking lot with me. Following me around. Asking me what they should do in life. Asking me if I liked their newest art. I really got weirded out by it. Although a few times I was temepted to get them all a glass of Kool Aid to see if they would drink it, I just kinda left them alone and let them follow me.

It got so bad that my friends started calling them the "Cult of Turtle." Fuck man, there was always one around everywhere I went. Just asking for what they should do next. I mean really, I could have made a fortune off them if they weren't fucking artists. Leave it to me to get a cult of poor painters to follow me.

One day I'll get a cult of rich people. Bored rich housewives. Insane rich actors.

Then the sky is the limit.

Screw you L. Ron Hubbard.

There is a Turtle creeping your way. - T

michele is all apologies:

My weird story just so happens to be a Halloween story as well.

My mother is real big on Halloween. She starts thinking up her decorating theme in July and by September she has collected everything she needs to get going and has the whole thing planned out to a T. This is her Christmas.

Every year she tries to go with a different theme or at least a variation on the usual Halloween decor. This particular year - 1994 - mom settled on the theme of rock-n-roll graveyard. She made tombstones out of styrofoam and spray paint. Stuck them on the lawn with creepy hands coming up from the ground, spider webs, plastic rats, the whole nine yards. Every dead rock star she could think of was represented. Walking through her makeshift graveyard was like walking through a slice of rock and roll heaven. There's Elvis. Buddy Holly. Jim Morrison. Janis Joplin. About four rows of dead rock and rollers. And there, on the last row, last headstone was Kurt Cobain.

This bothered me. I don't know why, but this bothered me. Yea, I liked Nirvana but I wasn't a huge fan. So it wasn't on some "Kurt is god and thou shalt not mock him" kind of thing. Maybe it was because it was soon after his death. I don't know. I just know that when I went to mom's house to check out her setup and I walked by the styrofoam headstone that had Cobain's name on it, I felt weird. I tried to explain it to my mom, but I couldn't really articulate it. "Gee that makes me feel creepy, mom," just doesn't cut it. I mean, she had her hero Elvis in there. She certainly wasn't going to care if I didn't like Kurt's pretend grave. So I let it go.

That night, I had this dream:

/insert wavy lines here/

I was working in a library. My job was to put books away in the downstairs reference area, which was off-limits to the public. It was a small, claustrophobic room, crowded with floor-to-ceiling stacks and photo copy machines.

I was standing on a step stool, trying to put a particular book away, a thick, dusty volume of famous quotations. As I was reaching up to get the book in its proper place, I felt a presence behind me. Afraid to turn around, I took my time getting the book on the shelf. Dust flew around as I tired to fit the book in. I kept feeling the presence. Kept fooling with the book, not wanting to look behind me. I knew someone was there.

[I should tell you, my dreams are, without fail, very vivid and very real-life like]

Someone behind me coughed, that clearing your throat kind of cough you use when you are trying to get someone's attention. I turned around, and there was the presence I felt. Leaning on the photo copy machine as if he had every right to be there was Kurt Cobain, in a flannel shirt and torn jeans.

He nodded in my direction.
"Hey," he said.
I waved to him.
"What do you want?" I asked him.
"Chill out. I just want to ask you a favor."
"Ok, but hurry. I have books to put away before I wake up."
"Um...do you think you could tell your mom to take my head stone down? It's giving me the creeps."
"I guess. I don't really like it either. Sorry."
"Yea, it's too....new."
We stood there a few minutes, looking at each other. He came over to me and whispered in my ear.
"This isn't a dream, you know."
"I know."
He moved toward the door and pointed at me, a silent reminder of my promise.
"I'll take care of it in the morning," I said.
"I knew I could count on you. Thanks."
"Yea. Bye."

And with that, he was gone. I went back to shelving my books. When I was done with my job, I woke myself up.

The next day I told my mother the dream and asked her to take the head stone down. She did.

I never saw Kurt again. -M

So those are a few weird things that happened to us. Some are ghostly and some are just weird. But thats out take on weird things that happened to us. We know that we are not the only one with weird things popping up on us. You must have some.

What are they?

Michele is currently the Director of Recruitment for the Cult of Turtle. No 20 year old blonde vixens need apply.

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