Shock ’18: To Mr. Granoff from a Future Noteworthy Alumnus
Dear Mr. Granoff,
I understand you are under scrutiny as of late following the uncovering of the so-called “Granoff dinners,” gatherings reserved for—so they say—the wealthy elite at Brown University. Many of my fellow alumni and current students at Brown seek to disparage your generous duxelles, but, looking past the vitriol, I would like to offer something different. I trust you are a benevolent and philanthropic man. Simple, even.
I offer advice.
Marty, while drawing up your impenetrable guest lists over the past few years, you have made a grave error time and again: you keep forgetting to invite me. Since the fall of 2014, you seem to have repeatedly misplaced my name, not to mention my better half’s name. Look, Marty. While you were dealing with bigwigs, I was dealing with bigger wigs. I am a drag queen.
You may have already in your head an idea of what constitutes a ‘drag queen.’ In short, I am a famous person trapped inside a normal person’s body. The operative phrase here is ‘famous person.’ Do you see, Marty? I am a famous person: a celebrity, a heavyweight, a dignitary, a mogul, a star. Mr. Granoff, your ‘star-studded’ dinners lacked a star. A forgivable oversight, but an oversight nonetheless.
In the spirit of diversifying the attendees at your dinners, who could have been a more apt inclusion than a bona fide starlet? The three most interesting cliques at College Hill are categorized fairly simply: international students, students with trust funds, and students who go through duct tape more quickly than others. This is a known fact, Mr. Granoff, upon which I could have elaborated over our second, third, or eighth course.
As a textile magnate, you and I would have had plenty to talk about. Marty, dear, I love textiles! I make all of my own dresses, and for your dinners, I would’ve slapped together something magnificent. Imagine me, standing 6’6” in resplendent paillettes. You tell me what it’s like to be a millionaire, and I tell you what happens when you put a size-14 foot into a size-10 stiletto. Oh, the laughs we would have had, Marty!
The Providence Journal—that bummer—reported that students arrived at your dinners donning “blazers, dresses, and high heels.” Had I been invited, I likely would have been the only student with significant experience wearing all three—at the same time, even. This is based on the presumption that Rachel Weisz has not attended your dinners. She went to Cambridge, where the local Italian fare can’t hold a candle to the wood-grilled pizzas of South Water Street.
By the way, Marty, if Rachel Weisz attends your dinners, by all means, carry on. This never happened.
Speaking of celebrity, please note my working knowledge of Judy Garland. It’s far superior to the average Brunonian, as a direct result of my work in drag. I could’ve recited fun factoids, while you told me what it’s like to be older than The Wizard of Oz. This intergenerational banter would’ve provided an evening of fun and levity. We would’ve given the students a real ‘peek at culture,’ to paraphrase the infamous headline. Perhaps by the end of the night, I would’ve done my Liza Minelli impersonation for you, but it seems you have unwittingly opted to save that for a later date.
Marty, I should warn you about something. My drag name—Toxic Shock—is considered vulgar by some. I would be open to spending the night introducing myself as something more palatable. Perhaps Maria, or Elizabeth, or even Anthony. This is a sacrifice I am prepared to make if you think that would make your less interesting guests feel more comfortable. But I can’t promise that I won’t maneuver a breadstick into a punchline. A girl’s gotta earn her coin, right? Seriously. I work for singles.
As for coin, it was estimated that you spend at least $9,000 per dinner covering the bill for students, alumni, staff, and faculty. Not to brag, but I could’ve saved you a dent, Marty. My corset doesn’t allow for consuming solids far much larger than a slice of lime. That said, I only drink gratis. Ask the twink who bought me three vodka sodas on a Monday for performing a number from Mean Girls: The Broadway Musical. Other students can’t appreciate an open bar the way I do, Marty. The way we do.
If the drag queen argument doesn’t suit you, Marty, consider this: I double concentrated in theatre arts and economics. This means I could’ve left the student focus group for the performance center slated to replace your inaccessible namesake, and strutted downtown to rub elbows with the bros like a true future consultant. The difference? My elbows are stretched into opera-length, jet-black gloves. What can I say, Marty? My wit and candor exist only to supplement my beauty and grace.
My point is this, Marty. They don’t call me Brown’s Finest for nothing. They call me Brown’s Finest because I won it.
Allow me to end on a note of gratitude: thank you for the eventual alumni invitation, provided you beef up security now that you’re the talk of campus. If Bacaro proves compromised, I’d be happy to chat further elsewhere over dinner and drinks, on you. I am located in New York City now, so when you find yourself in town, do reach out! My alumni email is active and well. If the dinner’s nice enough, I will wear a dress that reaches my calves. If the dinner’s really nice, I will dress like a boy.
Cheers,
T
Editor's Note: This letter was written by former Blognonian writer Toxic Shock '18. The satirical views expressed in this letter do not reflect the views of The Blognonian as a whole.
Image via Toxic Shock '18.