I don’t know how it happened.  I’ve actually spent time thinking about it…

 One day I realized I had traded “Afternoon Advice” on Sirius’ Playboy channel for Dr. Laura.  At first, of course, I declared myself “old”.  The racy language and vivid, spicy, radio-wave images painted by Ms. Granath’s croon had become too much for me; distasteful, even.  And while I didn’t necessarily agree with everything Laura Schlessinger said, I could, at least, listen without cringing.

 Truthfully, she sucked me in with logic.  And, talk about your “no-spin zone”!  Dr. Laura doesn’t dance, much less dip.  Dr. Laura thrusts without benefit of parry, and her aim is infallible.  She is no nonsense, an arbiter for personal responsibility, and able to cut to the quick without drawing a single drop of blood.

 If you are fat, her advice is “Eat less, and move more.”  Who can argue with that?

 If your ninth-grader fails English while excelling in Computer Science, she suggests you recognize the blessing in having his strengths exposed early, and encourages you to find an outlet for his love of technology.  Remember, Bill Gates began his march towards the Fortune 500 in his father’s garage, without benefit of a college degree.

 At the same time, if your adult son makes the decision to “shack up” with his “unpaid whore”, she advises that you shun the couple until your son comes to his senses by making his “honey” a certified, marriage certificate bearing, part of your family.  My son has lived with a girl I think of as my daughter for most of the last six years.  When pressed on the idea of marriage, he explains he wants to be sure.  He only wants to marry once, and sometimes she acts “crazy”.  I get that.

 Dr. Laura has a prescription for “the crazies”.  She even wrote a book about it, entitled “The Proper Care and Feeding of Husbands”.  My first thought, on hearing the title, was in recognition of its clever turn of phrase.  My second was that it reminded me of a manual written for the owner of a new pet.  And, there’s the rub…

 In the book, Ms. Schlessinger, who is quick to remind her callers that she is not, in actuality, a medical doctor, counsels women to woo their men with sweetness.  If your man breaches the doorway of your comfortable abode wearing a scowl, shoo your children to their rooms, and put your tongue in his ear.  If he complains about dinner, sit in his lap. and whisper your plans for a midnight romp over the spoon in your hand as it carries the plane into the hangar.  And, if he behaves as though his dirty clothing only enhances the pattern of the rug in your bedroom, tip-toe through the piles of synthetic fibers while waiting for him to unwittingly toss his dirty underpants into the hamper, and then shower him with matriarchal positive reinforcement. 

 Dr. Laura favors use of the word “Feminista” in reference to women raised in the “wild-child” era of the seventies.  That would be me. 

I remember smiling, sardonically, upon first hearing her use the word.  It’s been used before.  I once watched parts of a pornographic film bearing that title.  It actually contained a story line, which explains why I only watched parts.  Men don’t watch pornographic films for the story line.

 On second thought, I think that title was “Fashionista”…never mind…

 My point is this; after months of listening to Laura Schlessinger counsel well-meaning women hoping to save their marriage, or their children, or their children’s marriage, or their children’s children, I have realized that Dr. Laura has made a fortune by simply turning the tables.  She’s quick to hold feminists to a mirror, to highlight their role in the emasculation of men.  And, as a flashlight trembles inside one emaciated hand, the other ties a quick knot in the apron strings of a woman whose only goal is to do the “right thing”. 

 I don’t completely disagree with the notion that the women’s movement smudged the line of demarcation, leaving many men confused, loathsome to assert what heretofore was accepted as God-given.  It’s a problem.  But there is another side to that coin.   

 While some men cringe and stumble over words their father would have spoken freely, others see the change as permission to be “less than”, wallowing in their evolution.  This will, at first, draw a girl’s eye, but wears thin relatively quickly.

 I am struck by the irony.  Ms. Schlessinger rales against stereotypes inherent in the feminist movement while reducing men to a race of singularly visually motivated creatures who can forget anything, as long as sexual activity looms in their very near future. 

 A stereotype turned inside out is still a stereotype.