I’m sorry I have to do this, but I have to do this. Duty calls.

As an on-again, off-again entertainment writer, I’ve seen a lot of stuff come across my desk over the years, reams and reams of paper notices and cardboard cut-outs, back-pocket freebies and starburst flyers all clamoring for attention, announcing the imminent arrival of yet another performer or movie or play prepped to take the glorious World of Entertainment by storm.

It’s called PR, baby, Public Relations, Press Releases, Pitch & Run. It’s the world’s third oldest profession, a practice descended from tribal elders eliciting loyalty and moving in time through the auspices of pimps and circus barkers to the present-day, well-salaried Public Relations expert. It’s an inherently wicked business, a necessary evil shot through with hyperbole and handshakes, and shadowed over with the ethical/moral ambiguity of a Vegas used car lot. In the realm of big-time publicity, money runs the machine, and journalists lube the works, willing to be feted and gifted, willing to crank out a few superlative words.

And where does artistic merit fit on this thin neon line separating popularity from payola? All you can really do is sift through all the press releases, give time to what you can and pitch hard when the real thing comes around. Hope some vestige of integrity compels your work. In time, you get a nose for it, sort of. You learn to distinguish between the Good, the Bad and the Ugly.

Yes, a nose for it. And just last week, Dear Reader, my sense of smell was violently assaulted by a petulant cloud of stink unlike anything I’d encountered before. The offending item was a large, two-toned portfolio lettered with these words: “Your artwork will be admired, purchased and ultimately defaced.” Clever. Jaunty. Something to spark one’s curiosity. And then, a bit lower, these words: “Design the Lottery’s 20th Anniversary Scratch ticket. Win $5,000.”

Holy State-Sponsored Petard, Batman!

Let’s bypass the more immediate but ultimately irrelevant question of why a multi-million dollar government operation can only cough up a paltry 5 grand for a piece of solicited public artwork, because there are much bigger fish to fry here. To whit:

1: The Lie: Proponents of the state lottery argue that this monolithic game of impossible odds, enjoyed “voluntarily” (like cigarettes and crack) by the general public, goes a long way in supporting Washington state basic education. Forget the speciousness of this argument, and simply look at the facts. The Washington State Lottery funds a measly 2 percent of the state budget for K-12 education, which comes in at about $12 billion total. So where does the rest of the money go? Prizes: $288.5 million. Administration: $10.9 million. Retailer Commission: $30.2 million. Cost of sales: $23.9 million. Toss in some change ($3.6 million) for support of a baseball stadium everyone voted against, and you’ve got a pie chart that doubles perfectly as a testament to bureaucratic overload and pocket-padding chicanery.

2: The Addictive Model: While the legislature proceeds to hack away at our basic education budget, the state will become more dependent on funding via the lottery and other types of GAMBLING. Gov. Gary Locke’s administration is already headed in this direction, by signing us on with that monstrous, multi-state PowerBall game. Consider the fact that such GAMBLING appeals predominantly to lower and lower-middle class folks, and you’re looking at the most regressive form of taxation on the poor imaginable. Napoleon Bonaparte never had it so good.

Finally, No.3, Propaganda: “Everybody wins?” Horsepucky! George Orwell rightly remarked that all art is propaganda, but to masquerade the lottery as some kind of populist front for local culture goes too far. It’s insidious. The pseudo-nostalgic language of the press release conflates 20 years of Washington state history with 20 years of lottery goodness: “1997, Boeing merges with McDonnell-Douglas and… 830 self-service Scratch ticket vending machines are installed…” Oh, Whoopee! Don’t analyze this, but bask in the fabulous glory of unmitigated success, perhaps as Germans basked in the glow of Leni Riefenstahl’s films. Talk about moral vacuums. Asking artists to design a commemorative scratch ticket is begging for a stamp of legitimacy where none can exist, and then pawning the whole thing off as yet another victory. As they say on the Strip, the odds favor the house. That’s why the drinks are free.