There's a moment in every parent's life when you've had it with the begging. It started when you went past the toy aisle at Target -- Can I look at the Transformer action figures? Pleeeease? You look at your son, and you want to say "Oh, what's the harm," but then again he's 24, and really should be out of the house and dating girls. But if he's 3, you know what'll happen: He'll want a toy. If you say yes, his life is ruined, and he'll never take no for an answer. (As in "no, you can't move back home.") But if you say no, there will be whining, then crying, then a tantrum and finally screams of "I hate you, and I'm moving to Los Angeles!" Or something like that. Every parent has been there.
Which brings us to the latest Vikings stadium proposal. I think we're coming to the point where we'd agree to anything, just to stop the begging. Yes, I want a stadium. No, I am not hardened against some sort of public participation. But here's the problem:
A) Amount of money required to build a stadium: $900 million -- that's just three easy payments of $300 million, plus shipping and handling. Allow two years for delivery. Some assembly required.
B) Amount of money the state has: Negative $6.2 billion over the next two years.
If you squint and chew on the end of a pencil and run those concepts around in your head, you begin to see the problem. Complicating matters: Target Center is feeling old and wants some work; they want $150 million, or the place will be so outmoded and shabby it will have to change its name to Zayres Shoppers City Center. The Saints want a stadium, too. That's another eleventy gazillion, although in keeping with the Saints' middlebrow appeal, the roof will just be an enormous piece of Tupperware and each game's "lid burp" will be sponsored by a different local brewery.
The magnificent TCF Bank Stadium isn't asking for anything, but you know lobbyists are already laying the groundwork to have it demolished and replaced in 2032, by which point anti-gravity shoes will have changed football so much an additional 48 rows of upper-deck seats will need to be added. Then there's the cost of demolishing the Metrodome, unless we declare it the world's largest compost pit and invite everyone to drop off their coffee grounds and banana peels. When it's full of dirt, we plant geraniums, smear the sides with that paste they use on Chia Pets and, voila, the city's carbon-neutral.
But how to pay for the Vikes, he said, well aware this is the 149th column in the last 13 years about the subject, and in the end the bill will probably hit the taxpayer like a whaling harpoon in the sternum, and we'll all oooh and ahhh on opening day because it's new and the brats are awesome and there are fireworks! So does it matter what I say? No. But if anyone's asking for ideas:
A statewide hunt for leprechauns and the use of enhanced interrogation techniques to find out where they keep their pots of gold. A panel subpoenas General Mills for any and all documents related to the Lucky Charms mascot, with an eye toward finding out if he's hiding assets. End result: Lucky bunks with Denny Hecker, but no money.
