Play Meter

THE LAST WORD Keep a lid on it M ay 1990 marked the 10th anniversary of my graduation from high school. In keeping with this landmark occasion, some of my former classmates and I decided to plan a party that would make the St. Charles Avenue bon vivants envious. Let me clarify that. One of my classmates and I did the planning, with the help of our former English and Spanish teacher, Paul Mancuso. Jill , a friend and often-times thorn in my side since kindergarten, suggested we get together to implement a twoperson " phone-a-than." We called as many classmates as possible, asking them to join our Central Planning Caucus. Their promises to help carried as much weight as George Bush's "no new taxes" pledge. In the end, not a single one showed up for our meetings at the high school. It was left to Jill, Paul, and I to choose the date, time, place, food, booze, cost per person, and every other minor detail involved with such an endeavor. Paul used one of his many connections to get us a good price for the Victorian Mansion on St. Charles A venue, a gorgeous place that, in retrospect, was probably unworthy of the many hooligans in our class (some of them probably snuck out with silverware in their coat pockets) . Wearranged for an open bar with premium liquor, beer, and so-so white wine. It wasn't top-flight chardonnay, but at least they didn't serve rot-gut Gallo- you know , the wine those yuppies drink with salmon on the TV commercials. (I bet they retched and spit it out after the director yelled, ''Cut! '') We selected an array of food items, most of them popular on the New Orleans party circuit: oyster patties (they're better than they sound), little muffalettas , seafood gumbo, boiled and fried shrimp, crabmeat dip , and crawfish etouffee. For the unadventurous , there were the obligatory cocktail meatballs, chicken drumettes, and 154 PLAY METER/March 1991 cheese and vegetable boards. Jill lobbied hard for rumaki, which I think amounts to bacon and chicken livers on a skewer. I filibustered long and hard on the evils of this dish . No longer able to withstand my demagoguery, she relented and scratched it from the list of hopefuls. Finally, after much planning, the big night arrived. About three-fourths of the class came, suddenly free of the burdens that had kept them from helping before. It was nice renewing old friendships-and seeing who had gotten fat (I lost five pounds in advance to avoid being the subject of whispers) . Everyone was having a ball. Jill, Paul , and I patted each other on the back, reveling in our organizational genius . Talk of moonlighting as party-planning consultants was suddenly interrupted by two unruly classmates. " I don ' t know why ya'll picked this place," said one, a life-long pain in the butt. " It's too fancy; I can't unwind . The muffalettas are too oily , and they' re not using Absolute in my vodka and tonics.'' When her whining finally ceased, the other dissatisfied classmate spoke up. "I can't believe I paid $18 for this party. I hear last year's reunion class only paid $14. And I hate oyster patties! Ya'll should've gotten rumaki instead." (My steely stare muted any remarks ready to leap from Jill's tongue .) There you have it. These two idiots couldn't find the time to participate in the planning of this reunion, yet had no problem unloading their petty complaints on us . They and their classmates, who in effect told us to plan the party ourselves by not providing input, waived any right to utter a single disparaging word . This all came to mind as I sat in on the recent meeting of state association heads in Chicago. They took two days away from their busy schedules to be there, with many having to travel great distances . And don 't think they went to Chicago to socialize. It was hour after hour of meetings. The topics included video lottery, cigarette vending machines, the parallel game controversy, association officer and dues structures, and things of that nature . Someone would bring up a problem that existed in his or her state, and there was always a suggestion floating around the room. One problem, however, seemed to be universal: the lack of support from operators. Nevada's Doug Minter said his state has been working for some time to get an association off the ground. Utah's Bill Bailey said his tiny association is desperately trying to increase membership. Tony Parina was embarrassed to report that his association, the California Coin Machine Association, only has about l 00 members! How many operators do you think there are in California? The group brought up the " 80-20" rule-20 percent of the people do 80 percent of the work-with many saying that, as far as their association is concerned, it was closer to a "90-10" breakdown. That's shameful. I'll bet, though, thatthey have no shortage of people calling the association headquarters with critiques o n job performance. These state association heads are sincere1y interested in bettering things for everybody involved with the industry . How about lending them a much-needed hand . You ' ll be doing them-and yourself-a favor. D Christopher Caire News Editor