By Dana Miller

So now Colin Farrell has a sex tape. I guess his ex-girlfriend is trying to sell it. Hell, I'd watch it. I sat across from him in Malibu at a breakfast joint called Coogie's a few days ago and couldn't take my eyes off him. Certain people just ooze sexuality. I was in Switzerland at a music festival once and Michael Hutchence, the lead singer of the band INXS from Australia sat down at the table next to me. Same thing. He reeked of sex. Every man and women in the joint felt it. That's why Rock Star, the CBS reality show that is trying to replace him, will never ever take root. INXS was Hutchence. But what is with this proliferation of straight scurrilous sex tapes? Back in '88, I dated that pre-Internet smuggled Rob Lowe three-way tape from his Atlanta hotel room for about two months. ... Lord! Since then it's Pam and Tommy Lee (impressive units, both), and then Pam and singer Brett Michaels, from the band Poison. I used to host a national weekend show called Pirate Radio USA and we would book Brett all the time as a guest simply because he had the best butt in the world. 'Course he didn't know that was the reason. So I was elated to see it (albeit on video), thanks to Pam. There's Paris, Vince Neil, Eve, Fred Durst -- none of whom for various reasons I care about. But do all straight people tape themselves getting off? And do gay guys do it? I've asked some friends and while a few have admitted to orchestrating the Fellini fellatio or the Polanski pecker parade with a trick or two, most had not. Can't imagine weeks later jackin' to the sight of myself slaying a dragon, but hell, maybe I'm just shy. Yet what is seriously scary is that we now live in the instantaneous digital age. A friend wrote me that he thought sex tapes were "very 1995." Nowadays, your trick is likely streaming you and your cock courtesy of inferred lighting and it's being seen by some old troll in real-time yanking his wanker in Belgium. Maybe thousands of old trolls all over the planet. I'm serious. Have you ever been to those "spy shops"? (there is one on Sunset by La Cienega). I have a buddy in Palm Springs who I have just learned is the poor man's desert equivalent of Spielberg; a sort of "master of the schlong." He is a very nice chap, the kind you like to spend the daylight hours over a cocktail or two with but when staying at his place, you're thrilled to discover there is a lock on the guest bedroom door. You know that type. So he took me to this spy shop on Sunset. They sell cameras hidden in virtually every permutation imaginable: cameras in fake books, vases, flowers, and even toilet paper dispensers (what is that about?). It takes the "nanny cam" concept to an entirely new level. He's not looking for who might be banging on his toddler (thankfully he has none). Nope! As our tans fade back here at home he's digitally rewinding to see who's banging whom in the guest room. Yikes! These hidden cameras hook up directly to a server on a desktop ... or bottom if you will. My friend confessed he has every room in his home "wired." It's why I stay at the Ritz Carlton now, but hell, think about it. Pretty scary. I guess as long as we have Chi Chi and Falcon, perhaps this is more of a straight issue. I mean, we do as a group still care about lighting, makeup, and craft services. Now, I certainly acknowledge that my buddy could just be a lonely kinda closet creep, sort of like Aqualung, naked in the rain coat, snot dripping down his nose, or the guy with the lotion and the hole in The Silence Of The Lambs. But these damn spy stores thrive. Spying is big biz! So beware, my friend, because where you shake your moneymaker today, could possibly show up in Grandma's text box tomorrow. How frightening is that?!

I just marked and honored the 16th anniversary of the passing of my dear lover, Matthew Murray. He never made it to 30; not even close. Like so many back in the day, he lived through a horrible, excruciatingly painful death. He most certainly did not go gently into the night. Matthew died bitter and very, very angry. Here we were, living a dream on the beach and he had no real quality of life. One day he announced he was giving up. "Fuck it!" he screamed. Seventy-two hours later he was dead. This was a remarkable human being. Smart, funny, cute, and suddenly dead. His parents arrived from New York hours before his passing. His Dad, a doctor, looked at Matt and coldly announced that was a "death rattle" we heard in his breathing. I'd grown oddly accustomed to the sound. To Bob it was medical. Bob and Virginia elected to go for a walk on the beach and I stayed back to tell Matt to "let go." He was loved and it was time. He died right then and there. Just let out a breath, water came from every pore, and that was it. He was gone. The nurse took over and I grabbed my surfboard and hit the ocean. I couldn't be there when Bob and Virginia returned from their walk. I'll never forget watching them from 50 yards off the coast as they strolled up the beach and back into the house. These are very real scars. They don't heal no matter what you try and do. I've given time, energy, faith, and money every year since. IÕm proud of what his legacy screamed at me to do, but still sad and crippled. Nothing is ever enough ... never really ever will be enough. I bring this up for a reason. I'm thrilled to see so many high-profile folks continue to join this war: Bono, Clinton, pretty remarkable stuff. If we have to focus on South Africa to put a face on HIV and AIDS for today's donors, I'm cool with that. But it ain't over anywhere. Even right here in our own backyard. Chris Fritzen, a development guy from APLA, just sent me an e-mail that kind of brought today into focus. Chris writes:

Almost 930,000 cases of AIDS were diagnosed in the U.S. through 2003, including 43,171 cases diagnosed in 2003 alone (think a new Dodger Stadium, EVERY YEAR). This represents an almost five percent increase over AIDS cases diagnosed in 2002.

An estimated 524,060 deaths among people with AIDS occurred through 2003, including 18,017 in 2003 (think 45 jumbo jets, crashing and burning in 2003. Yes, 45).

Racial and ethnic minorities have been disproportionately affected by HIV/AIDS since the beginning of the epidemic, and minority Americans now represent the majority of new AIDS cases (71 percent) and of those estimated to be living with AIDS (64 percent) in 2003.

African Americans and Latinos account for a disproportionate share of new AIDS diagnoses.

The most chronic of APLA's clients (approximately 1,700 of the 7,500 we serve) live at an average of 181 percent below the Federal poverty level and no access to health insurance.

Women account for a growing proportion of new AIDS diagnoses, rising from eight percent in 1985 to 27 percent in 2003.

And what is most scary in my opinion? Fifty percent of all new infections occur in African Americans ages 18-25. Yes, you're reading correctly, 18-25.

Chris and so many are in that fight every day. It's horrid and tragic and I hate all of it for being so necessary. But I do see passion; I know it's there. Yet the committed ranks are dwindling. Infections are up. Drugs and their clear connection to HIV are at an all-time high. Yet, passion is down. ... You and I can elect to stroll in and out. And for the most part that's what we have done. But it's not enough. Dammit, it's just not enough. Progress has been made, yet the history of what those of us of a certain age have been through is slowly being lost. Nothing is ever enough, never really ever will be enough. On this anniversary of Matthew's passing, I want to remind you to take care of each other, from teens to seniors. Medical strides will be made. There is focus, in large part thanks to celebrities, Third-World countries and politicians who have woken up will stay sharp. But our community as a whole is not united as we once were. Fatigue? Apathy? Loss of urgency? Who the hell knows? Yet it is utterly discouraging and I have little hope for us as a power group ever again. Sad, don't you think? Sorry for the buzz kill. I miss you Matt.

Contact me at: Malibudana@aol.com

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