Advertising Age reports that "4.2 million subscribers, and test whether the genre has legs off the PC."

Here's more from the article:

That's kind of a departure from the eagerness she displayed when she held a press conference outside Cuomo's campaign office shortly after he became the party's designee.

Pirro spokesman, John Gallagher, said she was in Buffalo today for a television appearance and a fundraiser.

Afterwards, she's flying home to Westchester and probably won't get to see any coverage of Andrew Cuomo's speech tonight at the Sheraton.

TiVo, maybe.

-- Azi Paybarah

All three gubernatorial candidates and three of the four Democratic AG candidates are getting some television time tonight.

Eliot Spitzer, Tom Suozzi and John Faso will take questions during a town hall meeting at 7 p.m. hosted by NY1. Wonder what they'll be asked?

Mark Green, Charlie King and Sean Maloney debate at 7 p.m. on RNN. That will be hosted by former AG candidate Richard Brodsky.

I'll be checking enjoying the festivities from an undisclosed location and won't be on the RNN panel tonight. Don't worry. Your questions are getting forwarded to station (along with other emails about the race).

-- Azi Paybarah

The four Democratic attorney general candidates go head-to-head-to-head-to-head at their NY1 debate tonight.

As Jason Horowitz wrote this week, Mark Green has already been trying all week to get a jump on the debate with Andrew Cuomo. Sean Maloney came to Cuomo's defense, telling Green to "step off the ledge." Charlie King, who worked with Cuomo at HUD, hasn't been too vocal in correcting Green's charges.

In other words, this should be interesting. Predictions?

-- Azi Paybarah

Impulsively, and without consulting my husband Jonathan, I bought us two tickets to see Matthew Bourne's Play Without Words.

"Surprise! We're off to B.A.M. tonight!" I said, affecting a bubbly and vivacious demeanor.

It was a stealth attack. I knew that if I had consulted my Jonny about the matter, he would have balked. Since the very beginning of our relationship-we celebrated a 10-year anniversary last November-he has frequently expressed his views regarding the utter pointlessness of all high culture.

The differences in our tastes emerged one soggy Sunday early in our relationship. Jonathan had been stricken with a dreadful flu, and I was dispatched to Kim's Video to rent something that would (in Jonny's words) "take me out of myself." I returned with a copy of Fellini's Juliet of the Spirits. Incensed, he sent me back to the store to get The Terminator. He has never forgiven me.

Somehow, I persuaded myself that Play Without Words was something that Jonny might enjoy. I had received an e-mail from a friend exhorting me not to miss it. "It's based on the Joseph Losey movie The Servant. It's very camp, and when the dancers do the frug, they remind me of you." That was all I needed to hear.

Last Friday night found us winging our way to Brooklyn on the N train. So far, so good. Jonny was swept along with my arrangements before he could organize a protest or, like Michael Jackson, conjure up a back ailment. I made a mental note to utilize this ambush technique again in the future.

The first act began. I enjoyed the evocation of mod London: The cool kinkiness of the original movie, whose screenplay was written by Harold Pinter, is happily intact. The much-talked-about triple casting, whereby the main characters are danced by three people simultaneously, added a je ne sais quoi.

Interval. The lights came up. I turned to look at my Jonny. His face was literally gray with a combination of rage and boredom. It was more of a je ne veux pas than a je ne sais quoi.

"Fun … isn't it?" I said in a perky, Maria von Trappish kind of way.

"No-it's retarded."

"You have to admit that the dressing scene was a bit of a laugh."

(One servant undresses the master while the other two redress their respective masters.)

"There were a couple of bearable moments, but that does not mean that it has THE RIGHT TO EXIST."

The lights went down, and I prayed for a miracle in the second act. It didn't happen. As the narrative became increasingly incomprehensible, Jonny's disdain was palpable. I'm sure if you asked any of the Bourne troupe whether they experienced any palpable disdain in the air last Friday night, they would all answer in the affirmative. Had I been there on my own, I wouldn't have thought twice about it. Seated as I was next to the world's most indignant potter and philistine, I was filled with dread. I would hear about this for the rest of eternity.

During the ride back to Manhattan, Jonny surprised me by not throttling me or shoving me under a subway car. In fact, he seemed relatively upbeat, and the color had come back to his cheeks.

"I've decided that I should be grateful to you," he said. "You've done me a favor." I was shocked. Suddenly the door had opened to the possibility of more such outings. But then, just as suddenly, it slammed shut.

"You have reaffirmed my commitment to low culture," Jonny said. "I look upon this evening as a little refresher for my convictions."

Back home, Jonny dived into TiVo and paraded a million examples in front of me of the excellence of low culture-Will and Grace, Law and Order S.V.U., The Wire, etc., etc.-as compared with the dreary, incomprehensible inconsistency of high culture. I hadn't seen him look so blissfully happy in months: "It's as if my roots needed a bit of a touch-up, and you took care of it," he declared.

For those of you wishing to test the patience of any low-culture-lovin' friends or spouses, Play Without Words runs through April 3. (Call 718-636-4400 for tickets.) During intermission, do as I did and pop down to the lobby to pick up the brilliantly kicky Terry Davies soundtrack CD ($18.95). I'm getting my own back by playing it nonstop chez nous and frugging wildly.

Our summer interns have taken themselves (and probably our Nexis password) back to their fancy Ivy League colleges-not having done a lick of work all summer, by the way, and providing very little in the way of sloppy drunken sex-leaving us top ush papers for ourselves. (Rustle … rustle. ) Sooooo, let's see …. Demi Moore leaves Ashton with the sitter tonight and swings her glossy black hair at Saks for the "Key to the Cure" benefit. She joins Carolina Herrera's socialite daughter, Carolina Herrera Jr., and Harper's Bazaar editrix (is for kids!) Glenda Bailey . The evening's recession-proof guests have a shot at a $60,000 sparkly diamond from Saks and a Vespa . Use it to ziiiiiiip over the bridge for the Brooklyn Public Library's "Italian Authors" series with los scrittores , including Gay Talese . We called the natty scribe himself, who told us, "The 70th-anniversary issue of Esquire is on the stands right now and the editor included the best writing of the last 70 years , and he chose my piece on Frank Sinatra. Of all the writers- Hemingway, Fitzgerald , all of them-they chose yours truly! The author of the best writing of the last 70 years is on the phone with you, on your nickel!" Whatever. What's your new book, The Gay Talese Reader , about? "It's about a curious writer who gets lost in stories by entering the worlds of other people. I write about them, and I write about writing about them. It's nonfiction, not a memoir-I don't like memoirs anymore! People who are 30 years old are writing memoirs! I'm writing about a redneck sheriff from the racist South and journalism in the pre–Jayson Blair era. I write about this penis story I chased around -the John Wayne Bobbitt story, remember? I followed that penis story around." We know the feeling, sir-you should have seen us last weekend ….

[Key to the Cure, the Four Seasons Restaurant, 99 East 52nd Street, 8 p.m., 212-451-3932, by invitation only; the Italian Authors, Brooklyn Public Library, Central Library, third-floor Trustees Room, Grand Army Plaza, 7 p.m., 718-320-2100.]

Thursday 18th

When we weren't looking, the guys from Queer Eye have swooped in and replaced The Sopranos ' cast as the ubiquitous New York party boys …. Who knows where they'll turn up tonight? Perhaps at the "Unlock the Cure" benefit, a worthy cancer-fighting bash sponsored by, among others, Hamptons magazine (cheesy, ass-kissing to celebs, almost to the point of advertorial) and Gotham magazine (cheesy, ass-kissing to celebs, almost to the point of advertorial) …. And on the Upper East Side, th e Rona Jaffee Foundation Writers' Awards cuts checksfor $10,000 each to six college co-ed writer types ….

[Unlock the Cure, lobby, 330 West 38th Street, 7 p.m., 212-369-0809, by invitation only; Rona Jaffee Foundation Writers' Awards, fancy club on the Upper East Side,

6 to 8 p.m., by invitation only.]

Friday 19th

The ladies of Vogue remember the little people: Vogue has installed Jumbotron-like screens outside Bryant Park broadcasting the events taking place inside the Fashion Week tents, in order to "bring Fashion Week to the people," according to the press release. We couldn't make this stuff up, folks …. Double-down on the Zoloft today, 'cause it's the last day of Fashion Week. On tap today: Ralph Lauren .

[Fashion Week, www.7thonsixth.com.]

Saturday 20th

"We tend to all go work out together at lunch," said Fitness magazine editor Emily Listfield. "If anyone walked in thelocker room, they'd see the entire staff in theirunderwear, comparing soreness levels." See how they run in Central Park at the mag's "Mind Body Spirit Games," which is serving up quite the dilemma this morning: a two-mile walk at 8:40 a.m. or a four-mile run at 9:40 a.m. Since the only thing we run is late , look for us at the spa stationhaving massages, manicures and reflexology . Look for Ms. Listfield to be (wo)manning the microphone: "I have to announce all the races, so I get an out. Hopefully, the weather will hold. Last year was a monsoon-I spent the day holding a mike, worrying I was about to be electrocuted!"

[Mind Body Spirit Games, Central Park by the 72nd Street bandshell, www.nyrrc.org.]

Sunday 21st

For Manhattan single women tired of trying to untangle men, knitting has become a satisfying form of auto-erotica , and today they burn their fingers at the 2003 Knit-Out and Crochet. Julia Roberts ( Hook ) and Justine Batemen ( Family Ties ) are both knitters of distinction. Knit yourself something "literary" (taupe, ecru, maybe some plum) to hang on the back of your chair at the New York Times -New York is Book Country brunch. Not sure if they'll be serving pancakes-surely The Times ' newly appointed "standards editor," Allan Siegel, has something to say about that? Panelists include novelist Dan Brown (author of The Da Vinci Code , the most overhyped book since The Lovely Bones ) and Peggy Noonan , The Wall Street Journal 's answer to Maureen Dowd . If you're the sort of bloke who can't get enough of a good kazoo, you're in luck: Tykes will be kazoo-ing at the New York Is Book Country Street Fair as they parade alongside costumed characters like Amelia Bedelia (sounds dirty) and Daisy Duck (ask her why Donald doesn't wear any pants). Don't forget to kazoom over to the Mad Magazine table from 2:30 to 3:30, when The Observer 's own Drew Friedman will sign copies of the mag. Still feelin' the need for tweed? The never-ending New Yorker Festival -Fashion Week for people who read (i.e., who can't afford couture)-continues with readings from two funny guys (Woody Allen, Steve Martin) and lots more unfunny ones. If all this excitement is just blowing your mind, stay home and watch the cast of Friends pick up a bunch of Emmys they haven't deserved since 1999. Meanwhile, today is the final day of the San Gennaro Festival , which for the past two weeks has turned Nolita into a malodorous, tacky, beer-swilling all-night frat party. Whatever happened to the good old days, when the Mafia ran this thing?

[2003 Knit-Out and Crochet; Union Square Park, 17th Street, noon to 5 p.m., www.knit-out.com; brunch, Waldorf-Astoria, 301 Park Avenue, 11 a.m. to 2 p.m., 888-NTT-1870; New York Is Book Country Street Fair, Fifth Avenue between 42nd and 55th streets,

11 a.m. to 5 p.m., www.nyisbookcountry.com; Town Hall, 123 West 43rd Street, 3 p.m.,

877-391-0545; Emmys, 8 p.m., FOX.]

Monday 22nd

Maggie, Chloë and Hope- the Julia, Gwyneth and Halle of the indie set -show up at the Gotham Awards, hosted by Michael Ian Black (yeah, we dunno either). Presenters include Taye Diggs (helped Stella get her groove back), Naomi Watts (helped David Lynch steer straight on Mulholland Drive ) and Alec Baldwin (will help himself to the backstage buffet, thank you very much). Glenn Close and Steve Buscemi will receive awards for not selling out.

[Gotham Awards, Pier 60, Chelsea Piers, 7 p.m., 212-647-1828.]

Tuesday 23rd

Give us one good reason why anyone would ever attend a "breakfast anything ." It's simply not civilized. But if you're looking for an excuse to kick that annoying mutton-chopped hipster out of your bed this morning, arise at dawn , splash some cawfee in your eyes, drink a cup of Visine and get to Condé Nast mission control by 8 a.m. Join the unwashed reporters as they pilfer extra scones from the "Continental breakfast" (remember '99, when there were omelets?) and talk truth-in-advertising with Shelly Lazarus (C.E.O., Ogilvy and Mather Worldwide), Jamie Kellner (C.E.O.,WB) and The New Yorker 's Ken Auletta. "It's always a good time to talk! Anything to avoid work!" said Mr. Auletta, proud house-husband to lit'ryagent Binky Urban. "The subject is the future of advertising and how the industry will respond now that devices like TiVo allow people to skip ads at will." What's his least favorite commercial? "Ha! You think I don't use my TiVo and skip? No, actually I don't have one. I'm still working on the clock on my VCR!" Later, see all da fine ladies at the Top Dog Gala hosted by Barbara Walters , the she-ro of many an aspiring telejournalist.

["Advertising: Challenges Ahead," the Condé Nast Building, fourth floor, 4 Times Square, by invitation only; Top Dog Gala, Waldorf-Astoria, Grand Ballroom, 7 p.m., 212-874-5457.]

Wednesday 24th

Actor Ethan Hawke stops hiding from Uma's brothers and emerges to read from his sophomore effort, Ash Wednesday , to dewy 22-year-old editorial assistants …. On the West Side is Helen Gurley Brown and the inevitable, pseudo-empowered insecure single gals sporting the updated schoolgirl "f*ck me" look (pleated miniskirt, knee-high stilettos in place of knee socks … ). Miss Brown will read from her legendary tome, Sex and the Single Girl …. Speaking of, anyone else looking forward to Renée Zellweger packing it on for the second Bridget Jones installment?

[Ethan Hawke, Cooper Union, the Great Hall, 7 East Seventh Street, 6:30 p.m., 212-353-4000; Helen Gurley Brown, Coliseum Books Café, 11 West 42nd Street, 6 p.m., 212-803-5892.]

1. Stop pretending to adore The Osbournes . Yes, there is still a chuckle or two to be had, but after Sharon Osbourne admitted to Barbara Walters that she had mailed boxes of her own excrement to her adversaries, the show somehow lost its freshness. P.S.: Didn't you think Barbara, in her breathless attempt to be groovy and Osbourne-positive, was less than appropriately horrified by Sharon's poo-parcel admissions?

2. Join the Doris Day lobby. Liz Smith ( New York Post , Nov. 22) was 100 percent on the argent when she exhorted us all to make nuisances of ourselves until the Academy of Motion Pictures ponies up an honorary Oscar for multitalented, fresh-faced Doris. So much more than just another perky blonde, D.D. achieved the kind of multimedia cultural penetration that Madonna and J. Lo can only dream about-and had a great pair of gams, to boot! If you are about to dismiss this resolution as the drivelings of just another tired old AMC queen, then you are obviously overdue for a screening of Teacher's Pet , Calamity Jane , Pillow Talk , Move Over Darling , That Touch of Mink , Julie , The Pajama Game or any other of her chicly fresh blockbusters. Send excrement-free Doris petitions to 8949 Wilshire Boulevard, Beverly Hills, Calif., 90211.

3. Stop pretending you don't find President George W. Bush kinda hot. No matter what your persuasion, you have to admit that Dubya's earnest Texan big-daddy assertiveness and well-toned bod has a certain je ne sais fresh.

4. Stop picking holes in Michael Jackson! 2002 has been open season on the artist formerly known as the Gloved One. The poor thing gets all the accumulated flak that the press can't fling at other celebs because they're too scared of losing their access. So leave the freak alone-it's no skin off your nose!

5. Stop dressing like Jodie Foster in Taxi Driver ! That goes for you and you and you. Previous exhortations in this column to reduce the slut quotient in your personal style have been met with rebellious indifference. I'm giving you one more chance to refresh your look: Rent the Scorsese classic, take a long, hard look at Jodie's hot pants and decide if you think they're wartime-appropriate. And while you're at it, stop pretending to be an expert on Middle Eastern affairs and support the country that gives you the freedom to flaunt yourself à la Jodie in Taxi Driver . Cancel any planned European vacations until they-France and Germany in particular-adopt a more U.S.-friendly tone.

7. Refresh your mind. Reread the books you read when you were young and stupid and didn't really understand what you were reading, but pretended to. I'm rereading the fetid and fabulous Nana by Emile Zola, and realizing how many of the unsavory nuances were lost on me in my youth.

8. Stop going to trendy yoga classes. That competitive über -trendy New York lunacy-not to mention New York Times honcho Howell Raines' apparent fascination with the practice-has taken the granola out of yoga. The frantic hoopla to get into ultra-hip yoga classes has me longing for a wildly unspiritual, shrill, you're-in-my-space-bitch, high-voltage Jane Fonda aerobics session (try the Lucille Roberts at 80 Fifth Avenue at 14th Street, 255-3999).

9. Get TiVo. If you are seeking genuine spiritual calm, you can only really find it with TiVo. This life-changing digital system, which costs a measly $12.95 per month, offers you a chakra-opening, commercial-free television reality devoid of the worldly cares which come from worrying about missing favorite shows. Jerry Springer , Dynasty reruns-all can be waiting alluringly for you when you return home after a tough day. Call 877-BUY-TIVO and discover the real meaning of Zen.

10. Monogram your life. Forget about L.V. and Y.S.L. and C.D.-this year it's all about you, so go ahead and refresh your garments and other artifacts with your initials. Muffy and Buffy gentiles should hit the Monogram Shop (various locations and www.themonogramshops.com), while Jews and homosexuals must take the chicer, less uptight, iron-on summer-camp name-tag route at NameLabels.com.

11. Why not refresh your stale-smelling apartment with a jasmine-honeysuckle-gardenia olfactory orgasm for the New Year? Wait until the steam heat is blasting, and then spray your radiators liberally with Kate Spade's new eau de parfum ($58 for 1.7 oz.). Inhale deeply.

12. Re gender refreshment: Feb. 25 is the Doris Day Animal Foundation Spay Day. Happy New Year!

The shot turned the tournament around with a three-shot swing. You could just hear the grit ooze out of the field, which I found particularly satisfying, since one of the more agreeable byproducts of Tiger's long march through the present-day P.G.A. field has been his utter deflation of the notion that pop psychology can enable victory in the flaccid souls of today's exempt touring pros.

Pop psychology of the type preached by that dreadful fellow "Dr. Bob" Rotella, who writes books with titles like Golf Is Not a Game of Perfect and Parenting Your Superstar (undoubtedly a prize exhibit on the shelves of the Ramsey residence in Boulder, Colo.). The flap copy of Mr. Rotella's latest, Life Is Not a Game of Perfect , lists his advisees, which I assume he chose from his client list to show himself off. These include the Texas Rangers, a so-so baseball team (G.W. Bush, former C.E.O.) and the New Jersey Nets, the worst franchise in the N.B.A. And a bunch of golfers (Davis Love III, Leonard Mayfair, Brad Faxon and Tom Kite) who have only two majors among them–possibly because they spend time with "Dr. Bob" Rotella that should be spent in trying to emulate some of the things Tiger does. I have to say, finally, that since I am a firm believer–in contrast to the late Scottish king, Duncan–that the mind can be construed from the face, one look at "Dr. Bob's" jacket photo sufficed to convince me that whatever he's pitching is hogwash.

Tiger is surely as great a player as ever teed it up, very likely the greatest, and he will break (unless, like Bobby Jones, he quits early) all the records set by Jones and Jack Nicklaus and Ben Hogan, but it must eat at him that those guys had something he doesn't–real competitors to try to beat. Tom Watson, Seve Ballesteros, Lee Trevino, Gary Player, Arnold Palmer, Raymond Floyd. Guys with fire in the belly that glinted from their eyes. The people Tiger's playing against seem merely to be marking time in the big tournaments, making bogey among themselves to see who gets the six-digit money that goes to place, show and worse while waiting for next week, when the kid stays at home at Isleworth and they can compete spiritedly for the trophy that goes with the first-place check at the Greater Bupkis Used-Car Open. One funny thing: They all walk like Charlie Chaplin, feet splayed outward, which may be a "Dr. Bob" Rotella ploy for remaining cool under the pressure that goes with perpetual second place. It seems more likely that it's an unconscious physical reflection of an inner awareness that they're all merely clowns under the kid's big top.

But what, them worry? Why should they? Why win, anyway? Golf isn't about winning–it's about the money, stupid! As of June 3, two dozen touring pros had already won $1 million this year, thanks to the exempt tour presided over by Commissioner Tim Finchem. He's another one of those over-tailored midgets with an overly deep tan (its oaken hue raising suspicions concerning dermatological chemical dependency) who have leveled so much of what used to be varied and interesting terrain in American life and action. Whenever CBS, NBC or ABC puts Mr. Finchem on, as I suppose their contracts call for them to do, I change channels. Anyway, the great achievement of the Commissioner (doesn't that have a nice Stalinist ring?) is that when matters conclude in late November, during what golf fans think of as "the silly season," you will probably be able to triple that number of P.G.A. mediocrities who will have "won" a million in 2001. I can think of no greater argument than the P.G.A. tour-money leaders' list–unless it's the Fortune 500 or the Mets' pitching staff–for a performance-based graduated income tax.

Anyway, last Sunday, much as I wanted to stick with Tiger's virtuosity, high art of another time had a claim on me. Peggy and I had tickets for Barge Music, the incomparable Olga Bloom's chamber-music operation just down the street, which is as agreeable a way to spend a summer Sunday late afternoon as I can think of. The program was appealing: Ned Rorem's Night Music , a group of Fritz Kreisler pieces in violin-piano-cello arrangements and Brahms' great Piano Quintet, Opus 34.

Now back in the old days, I'd have been deeply conflicted. The listed performers, as always at Barge Music, were top-drawer, the program attractive. But, hey, at 4 p.m., Tiger was doing his thing at Memorial, too.

Not to worry. I set off for Barge Music with a full, fair, free heart. Not once in the afternoon did my mind drift from the music to possible golfing doings in Dublin, Ohio. The performance was all one could ask. I would cross the Gobi desert to hear the violinist Ani Kavafian play chamber music–she has such sparkle as a performer–and she was joined by the pianist Anne-Marie McDermott, who plays as good as she looks, and a wonderful, passionate young violinist, Nai-Yuan Hu, along with violist Paul Neubauer and cellist Ronald Thomas, all of whom dug into their parts with vigor and virtuosity. Special tribute is due the latter: Only a true artist can arrive late, thanks to the horrors of the B.Q.E., and still do right by Kreisler and Brahms. The last time I heard the Brahms live was a performance by Pollini and the Quartetto Italiano in the Concertgebouw in Amsterdam, close to 20 years ago. This was every bit as exciting. Anyone who does not do themselves the favor of a dozen Barge Music concerts a year is an idiot, let alone a philistine (you can get tickets and programs at 718-624-2083, or www.bargemusic.com). It is also as good a venue as I know from which to appreciate the visual splendor of New York City.

Afterward, we had an early dinner, and when we got home, I watched Tiger complete his evisceration of the Memorial field. Never a man had a fuller, more satisfying Sunday plate.

Because, you see, I have TiVo. And here endeth the lesson and beginneth the sermon.

TiVo is a TV recording system that works through boxes made and marketed by Sony, Philips and others. Unlike VHS, TiVo is simple to operate and program; it always delivers what you tell it to do. When I bought mine, I made the salesman at Circuit City promise that it wouldn't take me more than 20 calls to TiVo tech support to get it installed and running. By 19, all was tickety-boo. It has changed my life. I don't watch a whole lot of TV, but what I watch– Law & Order , golf, selected Seinfeld reruns, The Sopranos –I watch hard. I like to watch European Tour golf on the Golf Channel (the announcer, Renton Laidlaw, sounds like the late Roger Livesey–along with Gielgud's, the greatest of British voices), but since the time difference means it's shown here in the morning, and since I consider TV before noon the equivalent of whisky with breakfast, TiVo sets that to rights.

According to a piece in The Wall Street Journal a while back, TiVo–despite being a palpably better mousetrap–is having a tough time of it. And it may get worse, because now Microsoft is in the field with a box of its own.

It won't be Microsoft's box that TiVo will worry about. It'll be Microsoft's money. Money that has flowed from a virtual monopoly position. I'm writing this on a computer that uses Microsoft Windows 98 as its operating system. When I go to the Net, I use Internet Explorer 5.5. I really don't have much choice, since the programs I use are mostly Windows-defined or Windows-based.

One or the other will crash today. By now, that's a given. Crash, and oblige me very likely to go through a Scan then Safe Mode reboot that will eat up time and psychic energy. If Windows 98 were a Ford Explorer, I'd be dead by now.

TiVo never crashes. There's the rub. A great product, but no success, while Microsoft piles up billions. I doubt that any company in history has ever been enriched, in terms of cash flow and market valuation, on the basis of lousier (broadly speaking) products than has Bill Gates' brainchild. Complicit in that success were computer manufacturers who, in a manner befitting Sotheby's and Christie's, stood by greedily and unresistingly and boosted Microsoft to a monopoly position.

Monopolies stink. Unless you watch them and rein them in, monopolies compete 99 percent on price, and 1 percent on everything else, until they own the business–and then, watch out! If you don't believe me, ask anyone in California who uses electricity. Higher prices for less service: the monopoly way. The Microsoft way.

We've been tending toward a monopoly-run economy for a decade now. What I really don't like about Bush II Economics is that it seems ideologically committed to supporting monopolies blindly, in the name of free markets, without looking at the specifics of cases. I agree with Paul Krugman: There's an emergency in California. There seems to be profiteering. Under these circumstances, the Greatest Generation would have invoked and enforced price caps. So why shouldn't we?

Tiger Woods doesn't win every tournament he's really interested in winning simply by throwing his bank statement down on the first tee. He still has to go out and hit shots. That's what I was brought up to believe is the American way. George W. Bush and Commissioner Tim Finchem notwithstanding, I think we should go back to it. No play, no pay.