Janine vs. the volcano
Its name is Frank and it's ready to break its silence.
Scam Fam, you did such a good job this week! You sent me stories of two varieties of wedding bandit, a classic comeback attempt that was only disappointing for not involving this guy, some real heartbreakers, and inspo for my tombstone: "She scammed me out of nearly $100,000 using a series of brilliant confidence tricks as she simultaneously destroyed my sense of self and darkened my once joyful outlook."
Thank you. I will not be writing about any of those.
On Tuesday, The Atlantic ran an inflammatory piece, "An Italian Volcano Turned Out to Be a Fraud" by volcanologist Robin George Michael*. The geologic formation in question, who goes by Frank with its friends of which I am one, believed the Scam Fam might be sympathetic to an accused imposter, and asked if it could use this space to tell its side of the story. I said heck yeah, partly because its story is an important one, and partly because Frank could kill us all if it chose to. Take it away, Frank!
I'd like to hear your definition of a volcano. Of course there's no way for me to do that without also hearing the sound of you typing, desperately searching Bing for "volcano" just so you can parrot Yahoo Answers at me about "a rupture in the earth's surface or crust, allowing hot, usually molten rock, ash, and gases originating deep below the surface to periodically escape." If I asked you to define lava, it would only get darker. I'll spare us both the embarrassment.
This isn't about proving I am more powerful than you. I am more powerful than you, and if you believe a volcano registry holds any sway over me, you're welcome to ask a termite for its opinion on your latest Instagram post. It's not like I subscribe to some bigger-is-better worldview. It's not about size (if it were, I'd win) or age (points to me) or sheer geothermic force (literally I could kill you). It's about that headline.
An Italian Volcano Turned Out to Be a Fraud
Oh did I?
Let me put this in human terms. What do you call a bank robber who robs a bank with no weapon? I call her a hero. If you call her a criminal, you're a cop. I'd like to tell you cops don't concern me, but first of all, humans have a real police brutality problem that even after millions of years on this planet, I find sickening, and second of all, the volcano police at the free museum where Olivia Pope's dad works are throwing around some reckless accusations about which I can no longer remain silent.
I am not, nor have I ever been, an impostor. Ask Vesuvius. Ask Mauna Loa. Ask Olympus Mons if you can put aside your pathetic sense of humor long enough to stop giggling at its name. Or go ahead and keep giggling, and see what happens. Remember, O.M. is the biggest volcano in the galaxy and if Elon Musk keeps trying to colonize Mars it will show us exactly what that means.
It's about that headline, and it's about Janine Krippner. Yes, Janine knows more about volcanoes than you, I'll give her that. Does she know, though, what it is like to have magma flowing through your depths? Has she ever attempted to transform a puddle into a hot spring fit for a Roman Emperor? (Speaking frankly, the emperor standard is as low a bar as they come, but apparently you humans study those fools in school. The more I learn about your kind, the less I wish I knew.) Call me, Janine, when someone comes along to extract your strength to run its geothermal power plant.
“It tried really hard to be a volcano,” Janine said of me. She presumes to know where I direct my efforts. How she got that idea, I cannot tell you, but I assure you, when I try at something, she'll know.
Janine seems to believe I am a common Rachel Dolezal. Janine, I feel no need to hide my identity. You think I am some sort of Billy McFarland, inviting influencers to selfie upon the rim of my caldera? I purposely don't have a caldera because I couldn't stomach the corniness of a shiny-haired youth melting to death inside my core while trying to take a picture. You insinuate that I am the Anna Delvey of the geologic world. For one thing, free Anna Delvey. More importantly, my phreatic explosions would end the lives of you and your family if I wanted them to, and yet here you are, claiming you have "killed me."
I'm still here Janine. And I'll be here long after you're gone. So I ask you now, Scam Fam, which of us is the pretender, me or Janine?
In conclusion, please stop destroying the earth.
Sincerely,
Frank
*Hi, it's Ruthie again. Thank you to work pal, Diego, for alerting me to this story and connecting me to Frank. Diego writes ProPublica's Weekly Dispatch, which I edit. If you'd like to nerd out about journalism and help keep me employed, subscribe here.
My Week in Consumption
After two years, I wore through the soles on some of my favorite sandals, but mercifully they were replaceable. They’re total compliment magnets, super comfortable, and at $50, very reasonably priced. 5/5, did purchase again.
If I had a cookbook, it would be called A Toast for All Seasons and it would be all the stuff I put on toast. One reason I don't is that most of the things I put on toast are too uncreatively delicious to pass off as recipes, such as my standard August dinner of toast (Bien Cuit Miche when I'm fancy, Trader Joe's soft multigrain rustico the rest of the time) topped with heirloom tomatoes, burrata, basil, coarsely ground pepper, and white balsamic.
Something deeply uncool about my body is that sometimes my shoulders partially dislocate. It's blindingly painful and I hate it. I've been looking for a physical therapist I don't despise for months and finally found a place I'm super into, in case your body sucks as much as mine.
The new Hold Steady album is outstanding. It's tough for me to admit that I way prefer the studio versions of the songs off of it I've heard them do live. I started to wonder if it is I who am washed or THS, and the answer is we all are.