State gambles away its moral obligations
There's a better way than the MCAS to measure intelligence: Call it the LPAS - the Lottery Player Assessment System.
It's simple. If
you're in the one-third of
Unlike the MCAS, however, The Lottery is always looking for more of those failures. And one year into his job, state Treasurer Tim Cahill is hoping to accomplish just that.
At his
prodding, the state has reversed a nearly decade-long ban on advertising,
popping for a relatively small $5 million campaign to boost participation in
its premier game: Megamillions. Cahill figures that
every $1 in ads will fetch another $5 in bets.
The Lottery started small in 1972, with a 50-cent ticket for a $1 million drawing. Since then, it has grown dramatically. Now we've got a bewildering set of choices: Keno (12 games with drawings every four minutes), Instant Game tickets (with at least 93 different games such as "Cash Blizzard" in denominations ranging from $1 to $10), Numbers, various pull tabs, Mass Cash, Mass Millions, Megabucks and Megamillions (the multistate game, once called "Big Game"). It's a $3 billion-plus operation, present in - and sometimes dominating the business of - virtually every convenience and liquor store in the state.
And talk about fun! For purposes of research, I played some scratch tickets. Following the example of the players in line before me, I stood beside a ketchup-stained trash barrel at a 7-Eleven, rubbing off my circles with the edge of a quarter, cursing and then throwing the ticket away. It was a really good time.
Since its inception, The Lottery has occupied a moral gray zone. Gambling, of course, is connected to one of the seven deadly sins, and that doubtless gave people pause (not for long, though; gluttony is another one of the seven and Super-Size meals are still all the rage). Some saw it as a tax on the poor and disenfranchised. Other saw it as a moral hazard, saying that The Lottery, in effect, amounted to the state demeaning hard work in favor of illusive dreams of a big win. (Several current ads, for example, mock people's dull and difficult jobs with the tag line, "Having a tough day? You have to play.")
But the biggest problem of all is that playing The Lottery
is a fundamentally bad deal. The odds of any significant win are so poor that
you may as well burn your money.
And suppose you do win a million? Do you, as The Lottery says, "Strike it rich?" Are you, "Set for life?" No way. That million dollars gets paid over 20 years. The annual check, after taxes, is $35,000. Sure, you wouldn't turn it down. But you're not going to retire on it.
All of these concerns came to a head in the mid-1990s, leading the Legislature to impose a virtual ban on advertising. It was an uncomfortable middle ground. We still had The Lottery, but politicians could sleep well knowing they weren't actually ENCOURAGING people to play.
So what
happened this year? What caused
Easy. The Lottery kicks back revenues in excess of $800 million to municipalities. And in the face of state aid cutbacks and an unwillingness to raise taxes, local officials from all over started to look harder at The Lottery. Thus, the ads. Their goal: Get ever more people to play.
Listening to Cahill and Lottery chief Joseph Sullivan reminds one of an episode of "The Sopranos." The two talk of diversifying their portfolio. They analyze competition from other states. They worry about possible cannibalization by casinos or slots. They evaluate the impact of jackpot size on player participation. It all seems very businesslike and very professional until you realize that, at its heart, there's something deeply troubling about the whole enterprise.
Cahill somewhat acknowledges this. Nevertheless, he says, however one may feel about The Lottery, it's his job to make it work. True enough. After 30 years, our moral perspective is skewed. The lure of money is just too strong.
Talk back to Tom Keane at TomKeane@TomKeane.com.