The Swirling Vortex of Doom was a bizarre occurrence in Louisiana in 1980, when a drilling rig on a shallow lake accidentally punched a hole into a salt mine. Before the excitement ended, a river’s flow was temporarily reversed, big barges disappeared underwater and then popped back to the surface, and drilling rigs disappeared forever into a suddenly deep lake.

Still, despite the obvious temptation, it would be inaccurate to say that the reform of Iowa’s commercial property tax structure is caught in a Swirling Vortex of Doom. The actual SV of D was over in a few hours; it looks as if the struggle to revamp our taxes will go on forever.

Like the springtime fragrance of anhydrous ammonia, it has become a part of living in Iowa. Seasons and decades will pass, and the need to make our businesses more competitive will be served across the net again and again, only to be returned each time by the argument that local governments can’t function without that money and homeowners shouldn’t have to pick up the slack.

Gov. Terry Branstad could leave office, become president of something for a while – another college, perhaps, or a mustache wax company – reclaim the governorship when he feels like it and find his old hobby right there waiting for him. Here’s the leather chair, here’s a new Taser to use on Democrats and here’s the latest proposal on commercial property taxes.

As a card-carrying columnist (it’s nothing special, just the three of clubs), right about here I should compare the whole ritual to a kabuki play. Unfortunately, I don’t know what a kabuki play is. I went to the opera once, and that was enough culture for me, although I do enjoy an occasional harp glissando.

So if we cut out vortexes and Japanese plays, how shall we characterize this thing? In theory, the struggle over commercial property taxes is like nothing more elaborate than an arithmetic problem on a test. That’s what it should be, a straightforward calculation of how much money we need and where we’re going to get it.

But budgets, like cellphone contracts, can be more treacherous than one might expect. In May, when the Legislature was already saying, “Wow, can you believe we’ve put in this much extra work?” Branstad got into a dispute with the Iowa League of Cities. This was back when the League had some free time; now, of course, it’s focused on the playoffs, with Oskaloosa taking on Bettendorf for the Eastern Division title.

Branstad’s plan all along has been to cut the taxable portion of commercial property value by 40 percent in a five-year timeframe. Do that, said the League, and Des Moines will be losing out on $21 million in revenue by the fifth year. The city of Des Moines estimated a hit of $30 million every year after the plan was fully implemented.

Hold on a second, said Branstad. You’re forgetting that the state is going to subsidize local governments. Des Moines’ property tax revenues won’t decrease, they’ll increase by $6.5 million per year.

Leaving only two questions: Where does the state get that subsidy money, from its summer job? And is arithmetic a real thing with specific answers, or is it just an elaborate method of keeping kids busy between Geography and World History?

We’re running out of space, so let’s try a different approach. The National Football League and the National Basketball Association are both engaged in lockouts. In each case, the battle involves huge trainloads of cash that just keep getting bigger every year; the customers keep turning out for games and are happy to spend extra, too.

The battle to reform commercial property taxes is like the opposite of that.

Jim Pollock is the managing editor of the Des Moines Business Record. He can be reached by email at jimpollock@bpcdm.com