Belated SubscribeStar Saturday: Casey Anthony vs. Lindsay Clancy

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The latest controversy to rock the Internet is a legitimately terrifying one: a mother slew all of her children in what appears to be a premeditated, carefully calculated manner, meticulously planned to concoct an insanity plea; and tens of thousands of women, if not more, are applauding her as some kind of hero for mental health advocacy.

It’s a horrifying example of how evil becomes so mundane, we risk celebrating it as some kind of positive good. It’s also an indication of how easily manipulable women are when a viewpoint—even an objectively evil and lethal one—gains enough consensus to be “popular.” Women are actively identifying with a woman who committed cold-blooded infanticide because “raising kids is hard.”

The bandwagoning of a certain group of women in favor of Lindsay Clancy got me thinking about the Casey Anthony case from over a decade ago. I remember the outcry in response to that case of infanticide was completely different. Most women abhorred Casey Anthony. I still remember when the verdict was announced. I was in the office, one of two men in what was otherwise an overwhelmingly white female office. Every single one of them lost it when Anthony was found “not guilty” of the core charges (but found guilty of some lesser chargers involving misleading the police). “How could she be found ‘not guilty’! She so clearly killed her child!” was the paraphrased howl of outrage.

At the time, I reasoned that women were so fascinated with the Casey Anthony case because it made them feel good about their mothering abilities. The thought process that simmered just below the surface seemed to be, “well, I may have made some mistakes, but I didn’t kill my kid, so I’m a Really Good Mom.” That the jury determined the prosecution could not prove Anthony’s guilt beyond a reasonable doubt seemed not to matter at all—these ladies knew Anthony was guilty, evidence be damned. It was one of my first real glimpses into the hive mind of a certain segment of the female population.

Now we find women having a completely opposite reaction to Lindsay Clancy, who has admitted to slaying her children. Whereas the prosecution in the Anthony case relied on all manner of dubious forensic “evidence” to pursue a conviction (which, it seems, is why it ultimately failed), all of the grizzly facts are confirmed in the Clancy case. It’s not a question of whether she did kill her three young children—she did, and she admits it—it’s a question of her sanity at the time.

That’s one key difference between the cases. What intrigues me, though, is that women were so willing to send Anthony to the chair, but are celebrating Clancy. The former might have killed her child, but the State of Florida couldn’t prove it beyond a reasonable doubt, and women were furious. The latter did kill her children, and women are lauding her as a feminist icon. Have things changed so much after a decade-plus of wokery that women love infanticide?

Well, leaving abortion aside—perhaps the most devilish evidence of the self-destructive nature of modern women—I would propose another theory, one I have not seen discussed elsewhere: women hated Anthony because she was poor white trash; they defend Clancy because she’s an upper-middle class white professional. It’s a matter of class identity for them. It felt good for those same upwardly mobile women to dunk on the trailer park girl from Orlando—“she’s not one of us!”

But Clancy is one of them. She represents the apex of the “AWFL,” the Affluence White Female Liberal: a nurse living an affluent lifestyle with extensive medical and psychiatric support, as well as a doctor husband, who still wasn’t content. Indeed, she was so discontent, she murdered her own children—and, somehow, it’s her husband’s fault.

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Tattoos

My succulent paid subs—you have a belated edition of SubscribeStar Saturday coming your way imminently (coming 10 AM EST today, Monday, 24 August 2026). In the meantime, here’s a quick musing for the plebes. —TPP

I’m just old enough to remember a time when tattoos were taboo and trashy. The only people that had tattoos were the following:

  • Military veterans who had seen real combat
  • Motorcycle gang members
  • Tramps (remember the early 2000s “tramp stamp” lower back tattoo?)
  • Really rough lower-class types and/or people who were trying to emulate that style

Only the first two are acceptable. If you were at Iwo Jima, yeah, you’ve earned a tattoo of an angry fish or whatever. I remember in college (the early 2000s) the third—the “tramp stamp”—became more common among some women, but it was something that instantly marked a woman as having poor taste and impulse control. The male equivalent was that “tribal armband” thing.

Otherwise, tattoos were basically a form of self-medication for various forms of mental illness, like smoking cigarettes. Often, the overlap between the two—tattoos and tobacco consumption—were very high.

Now, everyone has them (well, not me). People reportedly get “addicted” to getting them (a common refrain I’ve heard from tattoo aficionados is that, once you get one, you want another).

I suspect their ubiquity now is indicative of our society’s general inability to think beyond immediate here and now. That used only be the purview of the fourth type on that list—those poor souls who are so diminished intellectually or developmentally or socially that they never learned—or were incapable of learning—impulse control. Now, it seems as those a vanishingly small number of people can think long-term.

Surely social media plays a role—as it always does—in both popularizing tattoos (“everyone” has one, so I should, too!) and in reducing our overall long-term planning abilities. Do I really want a tattoo of a flower that represents my deceased grandmother on my boob when I’m seventy? I don’t think people think it through.

I also suspect tattoos are a reflection of society’s increased nihilism. If everything is meaningless, then why bother with Beauty? Let’s just make ourselves and everything else ugly (ironically, I think some people get tattoos in an attempt to overcome their physical deficiencies; it’s rare—or used to be rare—for a gorgeous person to be covered in tattoos, but I’ve seen plenty of amorphous land whales with the physique of the Pokémon Ditto covered in tats and sporting bright blue hair). As always, nihilism is a blight on all things Pure and Good and True—and Beautiful.

To be clear, get your tattoo; it’s no skin (no pun intended) off my lower back. But I’ll judge you. You shouldn’t care about that, but if you do, it proves to me that you’re only getting the tattoo because you’re seeking external validation, so much so that some chubby raconteur on the Internet is getting a rise out of you.

God Gave you beautiful skin (ladies, listen up in particular). Don’t sully it with a spinning wheel that’s a metaphor for time or how your Mimi used to sew you a sweater. Mimi would rather her little apple dumpling have smooth, beautiful, unadorned skin, not a sick-green outline of a dove that starts to look like an amorphous blob after ten years.

Think ahead. Don’t be a putz. Tattoos are for military veterans and bikers, not corporate drones sending e-mails for a living.

Lazy Sunday CDII: Chapel Stuff

It’s been a Chapel-filled week here on the blog, so I’m dashing off this quick Lazy Sunday before dashing off to play bass at church:

Happy Sunday!

—TPP

white ringed flycatchers perching on a branch

Phone it in Friday CXLII: YouTube Roundup CCII: Nugget and the Birds

Remember Gumby? He was that green, bipedal, Claymation humanoid with the orange pony, Pokey. I always liked Gumby and his amorphous, shape-shifting ways.

Apparently, our three-legged dog, Nugget, has beef with the Gumbster. She has a Gumby toy that she loves to shake around. Lately, she’s been pulling Gumby’s soft inner fluff out the poor fellow, and yours portly ends up being the one picking it up. Perhaps Nugget is trying to get me to exercise a bit more.

What Nugget has not been mauling—thankfully—are the birds that come to our bird feeder. I bought a ten-dollar bird feeder at Lowe’s and hung it with a nail outside of our sunroom. Dr. Wife loves the birds, especially Peepers (a female cardinal) and her “boyfriend,” Big Red (a male cardinal).

What’s cool is that the birds are so enamored with their treats, they’ll let me walk right up to the window and look at them. I can get some pictures of them, although they tend to come out a little dark thanks to the UV coating we have over the windows. One day I’ll do a post of nothing but bird pictures (and my self-indulgent commentary).

Today is not that day. Instead, I’ll be sharing a video of a cute bird eating—and of Nugget locked in battle with her Claymation foe:

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TBT^16: Chapel Lesson: Listening

Today is the second Chapel of the new school year, and the first devotional I’ll be giving as the Chaplain! My plan is to play a saxophone rendition of the hymn “Softly and Tenderly Jesus Is Calling” and to tie that into my brief devotional.

That being the case, I thought I’d look back at this little devotional from a chapel way back in 2022, one that I’ve reblogged several times since then. It’s message is one we all need to hear regularly—especially me!

With that, here is 21 August 2025’s “TBT^4: Chapel Lesson: Listening“:

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Chapel Lesson: “Jesus Is Calling”

Tomorrow is my first chapel devotional/lesson of the school year! The headmaster took the first one and gave a powerful sermonette to the students. I decided to build upon the theme of his talk while also incorporating my saxophone.

I recently played the classic hymn “Softly and Tenderly Jesus Is Calling” at my old church one Sunday night (you can hear a bass guitar rendition here), and I’ve grown partial to the hymn over the past few years. I’m going to play my alto sax arrangement for the students before launching into my brief devotional.

With that, here is the text of the Chapel lesson I’ll deliver tomorrow:

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Open Mic Adventures CLXVI: “Softly and Tenderly”

I was working on an alto saxophone arrangement of the hymn “Softly and Tenderly” by Will L. Thompson last week, as I am planning on playing it for Chapel this week at school. I’ve always liked the hymn, and I recently attempted it on sax for a Sunday night singing at my old church. While playing it, I realized I was unclear one some of the notes in the melody, so there was a chunk where I was kind of adlibbing my way through.

That being the case, I thought it would be worthwhile to have a version for alto sax as sheet music. This arrangement is really more of a transcription; that is, I attempted to put on paper what I play when I am noodling the hymn on sax. I tried to replicate the various ornamentations that I add on when I play.

Once I had the transcription I wanted, I didn’t grab my alto sax right away. Instead, I grabbed my bass! I played bass with our new church’s praise band for the first time this past Sunday, and I needed to practice some of the pieces for service. Since I had the bass out anyway, I decided to play the alto sax arrangement on the bass!

The result is the feature of today’s post. The typical key for “Softly and Tenderly” is concert Ab major. That puts it in the key of F major for an alto saxophone (for transposing reasons I won’t explain here, because while I think it’s cool, it’s also kind of tedious and boring). So, by playing on the bass (which I think of a concert-pitch instrument, but which technically transposes everything down one octave), I was shifting the key to concert F major (meaning if I played it with a pianist, the pianist would have to play in F major, not Ab major).

See? Kind of tedious. The bass rendition, however, is not:

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zaira

Pit Bulls and Genetics

There’s been a lot of debate around pit bulls for years, and the sides are pretty predictable: some people argue they are only violent because of bad upbringing and abuse; others argue that the breed is genetically predisposed to aggressive and unpredictable behavior. I fall firmly in the latter camp.

Are there are exceptions to the “killer pit bull” stereotype? Sure. Nugget, who is truly the meekest, sweetest dog to ever live, is apparently 75% pit bull genetically; the only indication is her blocky head. Whatever pit is in her is completely subsumed under the other 25% of her genetic heritage (we highly suspect she has some rat terrier and/or Australian Cattle Dog in her). But no one would look at Nugget and say, “that’s a pit bull.”

We all know what a pit bull is, even if their advocates will try to argue that it’s “not really a breed” (funny how they’ll argue the breed isn’t inherently violent, then in the next breath argue the breed doesn’t exist; you can see why this dog is a favorite of single white liberal ladies in their thirties). It reminds me of that Supreme Court justice who, when asked to define pornography, said (to paraphrase), “I know it when I see it.”

Here is a pit bull. It’s a beautiful dog, don’t get me wrong. I also wouldn’t let it anywhere near my hypothetical children.

“Portly, didn’t you have a bull terrier?” Yes, and that’s a challenging and neurotic breed. I loved Murphy, but she wasn’t a saint; she infamously scratched one of my nephews one horrible Christmas (she was super stressed out, but it was still totally unacceptable; my nephew was fine, but understandably shaken up). I did a lot of work with her to test her boundaries and to ensure she wouldn’t go too far or get too rough. Additionally, the bull terrier, while sharing some common stock with the American pit bull, was bred to be super friendly towards humans. Other than that one unfortunate incident, Murphy loved people.

I still would never let her around a two-year old.

I’ve long suspected that a lot of the rhetoric around pit bulls isn’t really about dogs—it’s about race. I don’t believe that one’s race automatically defines a person, but there are clear differences between human races other than skin tone. For example, some Asians are lactose intolerant, while most Europeans aren’t; people of African descent are more likely to suffer from sickle cell anemia. These things don’t mean one group of people is inherently better or worse than another (“all hail the dairy drinkers!”), just that genetics are real and play some role in who we are.

Anyone who has ever had children, or witnessed young children develop, knows this intuitively, even if they’d never say it out loud. My niece is my mother; the older of my two nephews is my father. It’s absolutely wild how they’ve inherited personalities and traits and talents across generations. Obviously, my niece and nephews are their own people, with their own unique quirks and abilities, but it’s striking how much they have ingrained behaviors and mannerisms, not just from their parents, but from their grandparents. The dynamic between my niece and the older nephew is like watching my parents interact.

Again, let me stress what I’m not saying. I’m not saying that biology is 100% destiny. But I’m also rejecting the “blank slate”—we have all sorts of things imprinted upon us genetically from the moment of conception. That’s a really beautiful thing.

Similarly, dogs are influenced by their genetics. This shouldn’t be controversial—we literally breed dogs into breeds. What makes a breed a “breed” are the distinct characteristics between them. Some dogs are bred for companionship; some for hunting; some for receiving; some for pointing.

Some are bred as brutal killing machines. And we’re kidding ourselves if think we are safe just because we’re nice to the brutal killing machine.

But, again, for a certain segment of the population, I suspect their fear is that if we draw that conclusion about dogs, we might draw that conclusion about humans. Never mind that humans are ensouled; that we’re made in the Image of God; that God Gave us intelligence and self-control. Sure, some people might have more or less intelligence or restraint than others, but they can make a conscious effort to overcome or mitigate at least some of their biology.

What prompted this lengthy reflection was this post from Substack author Georgi Boorman. I can’t say I disagree with her overall thesis.

Here is my response:

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Lazy Sunday CDI: Koi Dance on Other Blogs

Koi Dance is out now on all streaming platforms and at https://tjcookmusic.bandcamp.com. It’s 90% off (!) with promo code koipond. That promo code is also good for everything on the site, so my full discography is under $10.

A couple of my blogger buddies very kind wrote little blurbs about Koi Dance, so I thought I’d share them today:

Legendary blogger Roman of Opium Tales has also graciously agreed to review the album, so stay tuned!

Happy Sunday!

—TPP

SubscribeStar Saturday: Professional Development

Today’s post is a SubscribeStar Saturday exclusive.  To read the full post, subscribe to my SubscribeStar page for $1 a month or more.  For a full rundown of everything your subscription gets, click here.

Koi Dance is out now on all streaming platforms and at https://tjcookmusic.bandcamp.com. It’s 90% off (!) with promo code koipond. That means it’s $1 for twelve tracks of great music (and that promo code is also good for everything on the site).

The school year is back in swing, and while I’m now on extra-super-secret-double-part-time (a little-known codicil in the modern working world’s constitution), I still have to complete some mandatory trainings each year. These trainings are rarely interesting, but nor are they particularly onerous; they’re just the boxes one has to check to appease that dread fiend Liability.

For example, each year my colleagues and I go through mandated OSHA bloodborne pathogens training. It’s a simple presentation reviewing procedures for dealing with a child (or anyone) bleeding all over a classroom. Believe it or not, that kind of thing does happen, although not for the grisly reasons readers’ minds might be conjuring up. It’s usually something benign: an unexpected nosebleed (yours portly had his share of those in high school) or a skinned knee. One time a pianist had a stubborn hangnail that got caught while playing and he bled all over the baby grand piano (it was pretty metal).

We also go through active shooter training, which is a grim reminder of the godless dystopia we currently inhabit. It’s useful to be reminded that the world is fallen and that there are truly wicked people out there. It’s also a reminder that law enforcement often view everything from the absolute worst-case scenario (“that big window is a death trap!”), which I suppose makes sense, given that they interact with the fallout of worst-case scenarios everyday.

This year I just had to attend a handful of these mandatory trainings, included the two mentioned above. However, due to a miscommunication from my admin, I attended an additional training that, were I still a classroom teacher, might have offered some marginal utility. Even in my new role as Chaplain, it had some relevant insights.

However, as with many such “professional development opportunities,” it presented something of a microcosm with everything that is wrong with the teaching profession.

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