I'm a big deal in Russia, but I'm not sure that's such a good thing

 I'm kind of a big deal.  Unfortunately, nobody within 4,000 miles of my current location knows it.  This makes it hard for me to get good seats at fancy restaurants or "fan discounts" from the guy who comes around in the spring to exterminate the wasps living under the eaves of the garage.

But if I ever go to Moscow, I'm all set.

As I reported in a previous column, about a year ago I was forced to branch out from my usual "Reality Check" deal and find additional writing gigs.  It turns out you need money to eat and there are people willing to give me some if I write for them.  Not a lot, but some.  I have had some and I have had none, and I can tell you that some is better than none any day.  It's not as good as a lot, which is always my first choice, but nobody wants to pay me a lot.  So I settle for some.

Where was I?  Oh, yeah, I'm kind of a big deal in Moscow, but nobody around here knows it.  I didn't know it myself until earlier this week. 

Let me back up.  About a year ago I began writing a horoscope column for an English language newspaper in Russia's capitol city.  I told Vladmir, the editor there, that I didn't believe in astrology, that I knew nothing about it and that I had never even read my own.  Vladmir's response was the Russian equivalent of "fake it," which is what I've been doing ever since.

Muscovites, apparently, liked my ridiculous and almost certainly inaccurate predictions, because it wasn't long before Vladmir had me writing additional horoscopes for other print and online publications over which he holds dominion.  I was happy to do it; Vlad pays me about a hundred billion rubles, or $75 American (though it's possible the exchange rate I've suggested here is no more accurate than my predictions) for each horoscope I write.

Like I said, not a lot, but it keeps me in beer and Ramen noodles.

But once I ship the horoscopes off to Vladmir, I try to forget all about them.  I find this helps me sleep better at night.  If I start thinking about the fact I am, in essence, lying through my teeth to the entire population of Moscow and its environs, I begin to feel small vestiges of guilt (no doubt left over from my Catholic upbringing).  Guilt like that can keep a guy awake, even if all the folks he's lying to live half a world away.

At any rate, the big deal thing: the other day I received an email from Vladmir requesting a short "bio" and mugshot to run with my horoscope columns.  Russian readers, Vladmir said, want to know more about me, including what I look like.

At Vlad's request I wrote a bio explaining how I have always felt drawn to the supernatural realm and have, since childhood "felt the presence" of forces within me, guiding me, molding me into the brilliant prognosticator I am today.  The two letters which best sum up that biography are S and B, though not necessarily in that order.

Still, in for a penny in for a pound. I've discovered that once you start lying it really does get easier, just like my mother used to tell me, though, now that I think about it, I doubt those words were intended as encouragement.

Regardless, it's the photo I'm worried about.  There are 11,500,000 people living in Moscow and now any of them with a newspaper know what I look like.  I'm guessing I have offended, annoyed or otherwise disrupted the lives of at least a few of these folks with my (again, admittedly) inaccurate predictions.  It's possible couples have married or divorced because I hinted the stars were in favor of such a thing.  I fear that by now there are more than a few Muscovites who would love to get their bear-fur mittens around my neck.

Hmm...suddenly those 4,000 miles between here and Moscow don't seem quite far enough.

Mike Taylor's new book, Looking at the Pint Half Full, is available in both paperback and eBook version at mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or on amazon.com. Email Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.