It was a modest little goal, for which I was happy to shell out $50, and sit in a cavernous arena with countless retired jerseys of New York Knickerbockers and Rangers hanging above my head, to listen to some of the most personal revelations about what happens "down there" -- the kind of thing I'm more used to hearing about in groups of two.

Pardon me for quibbling about something so utterly, totally politically correct, but memo to Eve: three-and-a-half hours with no intermission? Even feminists have to pee. Especially when, even on this V-for-very special night, the Garden's concession stands sold the usual V-for-vile hot dogs, nachos and supersize beers. And, you know, it's not that I didn't enjoy watching Glenn Close fall to her knees in her hot-pink pantsuit, shrieking "Cunnnnnttttt!!!" but it will really feel like we've come a long way (baby) when a big movie star can say the word "cunt" and not make thousands of women giggle and cheer.

Another thing, Eve: Are you aware of what your corporate sponsors (even vaginas, apparently, can get corporate sponsors these days) are doing? You heaped praise upon Lifetime, the cable television network, telling us it was proud to stand for stopping violence against women. But did you happen to catch, the night before V-day, Lifetime's showing of that feel-good feminist classic "The Silence of the Lambs"?

And if those charitable folks at Tampax (nice synergy, Eve!) are serious about making the world safe for vaginas and the women who own them, why do they perpetuate the myth that there's something, well, icky about tampons? When my supersize beer had taken up residence in my bladder and I just couldn't wait any longer, I made a trip to the ladies room. On my way in, two nice young women offered me a freebie: a little box, wrapped prettily in shiny blue foil with yellow and white flowers and a sticker that said "Cool Gift Inside."

At first I thought it was a Rice Krispies Treat. But it turned out to be a sample of Tampax Compak tampons, which, according to the ad copy inside, provide "Protection and Discretion in the Palm of Your Hand." The two free tampons were inside a stylish jet-silver "Purse-Pak," which was inside a cardboard box, which was inside the blue foil wrapping. In other words, at center stage in Madison Square Garden, members of a vulva choir were talking very loudly and very clearly about snatches, pussies, hoochies and every word you could possibly think of for "vaginas" while, at the same time, Tampax was handing out small, discreet, heavily concealed -- shh! -- tampons? Eve: tampon, TAMPON or, as Close might put it, "TAMMMPONNNNN!"

Inside the ladies room, the walls and stalls were papered with Tampax promotional posters saying, "Tampax: The Revolution Continues." You want a tampon revolution? I'll give you a tampon revolution: How about a box of supers for half the price I pay now? (I actually think I have a good idea for lowering the price of so-called feminine protection: Let's designate a tampon- and napkin-free week during which every woman in America who is menstruating simply refuses to wear anything to catch the flow. The men that run the corporations that make these darn things will be giving 'em away in no time.)

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