Stupid Prizes

I’d been begging the Toronto police to write me a ticket for poeting without a licence every summer since 2011. Imagine my surprise when — on November 4th, 2023, at 2:50 pm — they finally did. 

It was for $600 with an option to contest at the courthouse, which I did. The judge knocked the ticket down to $150, which I’m sure I will pay eventually, probably. Possibly. Never say never.

Of course, I could have gone to the office park during business hours to pay $40-$90 for a vending or busking license at any time in the intervening 12 years. But you know what? I didn’t. Genuinely could not be bothered. Besides, no one was sure if I’m a busker or a vendor anyway, and I only engage in semantics that amuse me, as a rule.

The cops — clearly on a roll that day — decided without my input that I was a vendor of poems. 

An illegal vendor of poems.

It’s been 2 and a half years, and I still don’t know what to do with this information, besides avoiding the spot where I spent 12 years writing poems, with nary a complaint (that I heard of). 

Sometimes I daydream about suing the federal government like the New Orleans tarot readers did, but that is a lifestyle choice I’m not sure that I’m up for. 

Sometimes I think about just getting the stupid license, but, which one? Both? I’m not made of money. And what if there is a secret third thing that I’ve unwittingly been doing wrong, too?

I’m too old for stupid games now. The prizes I’ve won could burst capacity at the skydome. I have no regrets, at least as far as sidewalk poeting goes.  It was truly an honour and a privilege. I hope we can do it again someday.

In the meantime —

Thanks for coming with.