I recently applied for a gaming license.
I'm not going to be a casino dealer, or one of those creepy leg-breaker guys in the black suits. I'm not going to be the guy who programs or troubleshoots the slot machines, or even the guy who sweeps up behind the slot machines.
I'm going to play music in the casino lounge.
I suppose it's possible that I could sneak over between sets and reprogram a bank of video poker machines. I could mug a few old ladies in the elevator as I load in my gear. I could throw acid in the face of the teller in the counting cage, grab a few grand, then laugh maniacally as I head to some third-world rathole where the locals will come to know me only as "El Jefe."
Since I don't find any of those scenarios plausible, I did wonder exactly why I had to acquire the license (I don't see how the license would stop me from establishing the Principality of Andronia, but that is another issue). I've heard of far more ridiculous vocational licensure requirements, however, so I didn't think about it too much.
The straw that broke the Andronian peasant child's back was the fact that I had to have the license application notarized. Not the application itself, actually, but the five addendums that accompany the license. There was something about disclosure, something about release from liability, and I believe the word "whereof" was involved.
As I understand it, the purpose of a notary public is to have a disinterested party witness the signing of legal documents, in case one of the parties later claims "nope. That ain't my X. Here's how I makes my mark." In such an event, the notary public would be called to verify that the mark was indeed that of the party of the first part, the notary's own mark would be shown as proof, and the matter would be decided without resorting to fisticuffs.
The thing that strikes me as odd about notary service is that the overwhelming majority of contracts seem to be enforced without it, and the contracts that require it seem entirely arbitrary. Is there a fear that my gaming license application--which is essentially a one-way contract--may actually be a clever ruse by Wile E. Coyote to steal my identity? If I show up to play at the casino, doesn't that presume that I really did sign the application? And if I don't show up, who cares?
Years ago, I became an ordained minister through the ecclesiastical body known as the Internet. I achieved this great honor to perform a wedding ceremony for some dear friends of mine, and it was a wonderful experience. Since I'm a jackass, though, I thought it would be fun to gild the lily.
My idea was to acquire a few more honorifics, so I could order business cards that would read "Andrew Stout: Ordained Minister, Notary Public, Licensed Clown." I still don't know if any such clown license exists, since this idea never made it to the implementation stage. I now realize that the greater disappointment is my current lack of knowledge about the dark underbelly of the world of notaries public.
But, as I do my best thinking when my head is empty of cumbersome facts, my loss is your gain.
