I didn’t wear the fez all night.
But I did to make an entrance. It helped ease the entry into an elegant dining experience at a posh Greenwich Village home — a dinner party to celebrate Katherine Lanpher’s birthday (as readers of this blog will know, she and Barbie are the same age, though Barbie hit 50 first) — where I knew I would be going solo among luminaries.
Why a fez? You see, it was a gift. I acted as defacto fixer for a reporting trip when I was living in Egypt. With my experience as a producer, I became the go-to guy on the trip, and was dubbed Duff Daddy. The fez (along with a very fun trip with three great and talented people) was my prize.
At Katherine’s birthday dinner, luckily someone else had a camera. I was designated photographer for the evening, so there are no other pictures of me. If you look at my photos, it’s as though I was merely a phantom witness to the scene, like a Soviet-era politico who fell from grace and was airbrushed from all public images.
Thanks to KT, who was a delightful person to sit next to at dinner, there is proof of my existence. Albeit, with a fez on my head.