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Wednesday, January 14, 1998 By Brian O'Neill
Travel up the Ohio River from that lovely turn-of-the-century abode we've always known as Western Pen and you'll come to a newer, but no less imposing, structure.
Where the prison handles 1,800 of the state's most violent criminals, the newer place can handle 33 times that many rowdies. By happiest coincidence, each is considered obsolete by the people who run them.
So why not remodel Three Rivers Stadium into a new prison?
Now, I know what you're thinking. It's what I wondered when Seth Beckerman of Mt. Lebanon called me with this notion the other day.
Is the stadium close enough to the river to satisfy Pittsburgh prisoners? Those inmates who graduate from the Allegheny County Jail, the Monongahela Cooler, naturally anticipate an equal or better view when promoted to a prestigious state facility.
Well, having paced off the two venues yesterday - while being watchful for falling inmates at the high-security high-rise - I'm pleased to report comparable riverfront atmosphere. Each building is separated from the water by thick ribbons of asphalt, and the heights of the buildings appear close. (Though you might check with your favorite scalper to be sure.)
The thought of stadium luxury boxes being fitted with steel bars warmed my soul, too, I must confess. Such a switch would allow the huddled masses, yearning to breathe brie, to finally feel good about not getting in one.
Having the state pick up more than $40 million in accumulated debt on the stadium also has its appeal. And who can't get behind the idea of prisoners on work-release programs selling shoes, or perhaps license plates, in the Nordstrom's store that would be part of the proposed Rooneyland on the North Shore?
Granted, Three Rivers is a shade uglier than we like our lockups to be, but imagine a city so civilized that its prisoners exercise on artificial turf. Makes the heart thump.
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And now for something completely different: City Controller Tom Flaherty says suburban waste products have gotten a free ride for too long. He says the city should not take this, uh, stuff from the suburbs anymore.
Some 26 municipalities ship their wastewater through city pipes to the Allegheny County Sanitary Authority plant on the North Side, without so much as a thank-you note.
They're all supposed to share in the maintenance, but past agreements have not been enforced. So Flaherty sniffed around and found gold where others cared not to look.
Figure 6.3 billion gallons of suburban waste a year. Charge 50 cents per 1,000 gallons and the city is about $3.1 million richer, Flaherty says.
Talk about being flush.
This idea is only in the talking stage, but given the way commuters reacted when the city raised its parking tax, this notion could have a more difficult passage than a three-cheese burrito.
There are ways to avoid or at least defray the parking tax. You can use public transportation, car pool, park in the cheaper fringe lots or roll the dice and park illegally.
There would be no way to avoid the sewage tax without annoying your neighbors or jeopardizing the rose bushes.
On the other hand, it doesn't seem very neighborly for suburbanites to send this stuff hurtling through the city without kicking in for the trip. A man once said there's no such thing as a free lunch. If he'd have kept talking, he'd have been on Flaherty's side.
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