It's my birthday, and PEEPING TOM (58)

Well, hell and high water, it's my goddamn birthday. Oh yes, the clock has turned once again, and I stand before you, 27 years old. Here's a few thoughts on my last year of life:

- It's been a big one. I mean seriously, this might be - aside from coming out of the womb, leaving for college, and the ill-advised year spent fighting in the Foreign Legion - the most transitory year I've ever had. Long relationships fell apart, new wonderful relationships emerged, big moves are in the works, the Sanders' Family is starting to spread out across this newly Obama-ed country of ours - it's been a real shit-storm these last 365 days. And now sitting in front of my television, reeking like stale booze and nursing my pre-birthday bash celebration hang-over, all I can think is, "awesome." I can't wait for this next year, it's going to be wild and different and completely outside of my thick wall of comfort, but you know, I'm excited. I think that's a good way to start a new year of life.

- Birthdays are weird for me. I love 'em in the way that someone who is obsessed with gifts, Baskin and Robbins ice cream clowns, free booze, and alpaca rides at the zoo loves them. That said, birthdays are a big reminder of the fact that, shit, I'm getting old. There's gray in my hair these days. My knees lock up a little when I run. There's a lot more polyester creeping in to my closet and my gold chain feels just a bit heavier around my neck. It's not that I'm actually old (prior to contrary belief 27 is still young) it's just the idea that the whole world is moving along, regardless of me being 26, 27, 39, 92. Young, old, attractive, ugly, fat, skinny, freckled, albino, this world is powering forward and my birthday, for whatever reason is always a reminder that to a certain degree, I'm just a spectator watching everything creep past.

- I don't really know what to do for my birthdays anymore. I mean the days of shetland pony-riding strippers and illegally adopting children are sort of coming to a stand still and I'm at a loss for what a birthday boy is s'posed to do. Am I still allowed to get black out drunk and wake up in the back of a parked car wearing a New Year's dress and nothing else? Can I still get lapdances at seedy strip clubs (I can't, and I won't) from women with sagging skin and crispy hair? Can I still have my rowdy drunken friends over for hastily rolled blunts and warm, cheap beer pounding? I don't know. Readers, if you've got a good idea, please let me know.

Tip your morning glass of scotch to, well, me this morning. 'Cause Jesus guys, it's my birthday.


I am really glad Peeping Tom (58) is over. It was creepy and bizarre and I couldn't stare at Mark (Carl Boehm) and his big, strange eyes, and toggle-button jacket any longer. I couldn't stare at his weird pervo-film room where he stabbed women with the knife he'd installed on the tri-pod of his camera. No, no I couldn't. I actually enjoyed this movie, I liked the suspense and the really deep, dark sort of psychological horror it was filled to the brim with. It's not a film I'll watch again for a long long time, but it certainly had me interested at least to the end, and a lot of these films can't attest to that.

I actually enjoyed the fact that this movie, critically spat on when it first released in the late 1960s, was pretty much a super intelligent take on a slasher film. Mark (Boehm) is a severely screwed up man, who owns a house, works at a movie studio and for extra money takes semi-naked pictures of slightly attractive women. Just a normal perv you wouldn't let around your children right? Wrong, Mark also likes himself a filmed murder of a busty red-head. It really hits the fan though when Mark starts to fall in love with a woman whom, for some reason, can understand his murderous ways. As you might guess, the killings continue, the story spirals in to a fairly tragic, if not a somewhat melodramatic finish, and along the way pretty much every horror trope is touched upon, but all through the very intelligent, very bizarre lens of Michael Powell.

It's not one that I'm recommending for everyone, but if you're interested in strange takes on psych-horror, this one might just be for you.

Thursday: the somewhat terrifying Nazi-softcore film The Night Porter (59)