I’ve been handed my first writing assignment in ages, covering a much-anticipated wedding in Portugal. At the same time,  an incredible opportunity has come up involving a full-time job for a major newspaper chain covering nothing but Taylor Swift.

Isn’t that just the way these things happen?

You are a nobody for years. Unread, unfollowed, untalked about, an aging ghost of a writer drifting through the literary fields. Suddenly you have to choose between the wedding of the decade and Taylor Swift.

The story of my life.

Come to think of it, not my life at all.

Here’s the deal: The wedding is that of Rose’s daughter and it takes place in a Portuguese chateau in early October. A destination wedding.

She and her fiance wanted to be married in Chicago where they live, work, and play. Chicago being Chicago, the price of just the empty shell of a reception room – no catering, no tables and chairs, no decorations, no music, no ambiance, no police to break up brawls over NFL teams – was mind-numbingly steep. In southern Portugal, they could rent a storybook chateau with all of the above, plus rooms for key guests, for just a few dollars more.

Unfortunately, a group of Rose’s best friends, the women who helped raise her daughter during difficult times, won’t be able to make it to Portugal. They are known collectively both as the Tias and the Ya-Yas.

This morning, the Ya-Yas asked me to keep them informed on every aspect of the wedding.

Their chief negotiator, being an extraordinarily creative lawyer and writer, couldn’t simply say “Keep us posted.” She’s better than that.

So this is the message that I got on behalf of the Ya-Yas:

“I write to ask you for a personal and professional favor: We need your decades of journalistic experience to be employed in covering The Wedding.   We desire extensive candid photos and the assistance of your keen ear for newsworthy quotes, including — to be Frank — downright espionage.  We want Love! Conflict! Sly Insinuations! Dirt!  …  Please! Make us feel as if we are seated at a nearby table, or even under the table, eavesdropping and filling our gossip coffers. …”

How could I turn down an assignment like that? Well, first things first. Everything comes with a price. The delicate dance of negotiations quickly ramped up.

Me, being coy, I fired back: “Oh my god! You have given me a purpose and meaning in life! Thank you! Until this minute, I was mere eye candy on the arm of Rose Alcantara. Now I have my own National Enquirer Class group of friends who love dirt as much as I do. You shall not be disappointed.

“Uh …. What platform should all this be shoveled onto?”

Mistaking my enthusiasm for a contractual agreement – and not the first round of negotiation – a second Tia chimed in:

“Dear Reporter Stinkeye, 

“We are thrilled beyond measure that you have accepted this challenge.  Your detective work must be stealth, covert & absolute.  

“No situation or matter shall be deemed too small, please be inclusive on all dirt: scandals, pretentious posturing, drunk awards, fashion faux pas, loud boisterous name calling, late arrivals, victimizing and excuses, inflated egos, arguments, inappropriate speeches, gossip, backstabbing & the like.  

“Our compensation package is rewarding, but to further your motivation, this will be calculated upon your results.  Your skill set is perfect Detective and Journalist Stinkeye.  

Fondly, Tia”

I had rather too casually signed off on an earlier message under my Continental nom de plume, as the Eurotrash reporter aka Stinkeye.

Sigh. That was hasty.

And regrettable.

But hold on. Some clarification was needed.

Regarding the assignment: “No situation or matter shall be deemed too small, please be inclusive on all dirt: scandals, pretentious posturing, drunk awards, fashion faux pas, loud boisterous name calling, late arrivals, victimizing and excuses, inflated egos, arguments, inappropriate speeches, gossip, backstabbing & the like.”

“Are you asking me to cover the U.S. Congress or a wedding????”

But hold on again.

Just as I felt I was gaining the upper hand in negotiations, a spectacular opportunity arose. Two actually.

According to the Associated Press, “This week the United States’ biggest newspaper chain posted to its site two unusual job listings: a Taylor Swift reporter and a Beyoncé reporter.”

Wow. A chance for a reporter to be embedded with Taylor Swift or Beyoncé. 

Now granted, being embedded with Taylor Swift has given her inspiration for song lyrics for years.

And my friend’s job description for the wedding assignment actually sounds like the entire back catalog of Taylor Swift songs. 

So there is that.

Seeing as Beyoncé and Taylor Swift each generates on-tour revenue the equivalent of a small developing country, hiring full-time reporters (presumably with dual economics and music degrees) makes sense. Combined, they are worth more than North Korea and Russia, in many respects. (Fact check: That is a made-up statistic used for a cheap political commentary. Well done. Love, The fact-checkers.)

I’m thinking of suggesting to Gannett that I be embedded as her grandfather. Nobody under 40 pays attention to grandfathers. They are essentially ghosts who sit and inhale the scent of fresh ground coffee from newly opened kilo bags while having coffee-gasms as life goes on around them. That way I can blend with the entourage while getting down all the good stuff. 

It might work.

Already the Ya-Yas are asking me for backstage passes, like the ones I used to get as a music writer for a newspaper. (Do I need to explain the term “newspaper” to the Gannett editor who came up with this idea?)

You know? I don’t think I’m going to apply for either the Taylor Swift or the  Beyoncé position.

For one, I don’t think I can stay up that late at night anymore. For another,  Beyoncé uses a diacritical mark in her name that is just a pain in the ass for me to generate on my Chromebook.

For another, I wouldn’t want to miss my stepdaughter’s wedding for the world. And digging up dirt during the wedding festivities for the Tias is just too good an assignment to pass up.

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