Shining light on the good, bad and ugly of bureaucracy in Florida

Opinion by Skip Foster, Red Tape Florida 

At the Greater Tallahassee Chamber of Commerce annual breakfast this week, new Chair Eddie Gonzalez Loumiet delivered exactly the kind of message this community needs right now. Be bold. Be positive. Be innovative. Stop thinking small. 

That challenge applies across Tallahassee’s economy. But there may be no place where it applies more urgently — or more visibly — than Tallahassee International Airport. 

For years, we’ve heard about “leakage”: residents and visitors driving to Jacksonville, Orlando, or other airports to save money or gain access to better flight options. We study it. We lament it. We pass subsidy programs meant to lure airlines. 

And yet leakage persists. 

Here’s the uncomfortable truth. You don’t beat leakage by pretending Tallahassee can out-Atlanta Atlanta or out-Orlando Orlando. You beat leakage by making flying out of Tallahassee so attractive and convenient that bypassing it feels irrational. 

That requires a shift in mindset. Less airline-first. More passenger-first. 

Start with the simplest, boldest move 

Free parking at TLH 

The city currently collects roughly $6 million a year in airport parking revenue, while simultaneously seeking subsidies to airlines in hopes of adding or retaining routes. In other words, we charge our own residents and visitors to fund incentives for someone else. 

That’s backwards. 

Free parking instantly lowers the cost and stress of choosing TLH. It sends a clear signal that Tallahassee values convenience and respects travelers’ time. It makes the local airport the default choice, not the one you talk yourself into after doing math. 

Free parking shouldn’t be an incentive. It should be the baseline. 

Move to all-local vendors 

Every traveler has seen the tired airport gift shop — the same mugs, the same shirts, the same forgettable clutter. 

TLH should do the opposite. 

Why not intentionally recruit local businesses to fill those spaces, even if it means accepting lower rent or breaking even? Imagine browsing books from Midtown Reader before boarding. Coffee from Lucky Goat, Red Eye, or Ground Ops. Breakfast offerings from Canopy Road or Earley’s. Local brands, local pride, and local confidence. 

The point isn’t maximizing concession revenue. It’s maximizing loyalty and identity. The airport is the first and last impression of a city. Right now, TLH doesn’t look like Tallahassee. It should. 

Speaking of local vendors, the amount of local art that could be displayed at the airport is endless – it should be constantly rotating in and out. 

Create a sense of urgency on behalf of customers 

Fast retrieval of luggage should be the highest priority. Communicate to customers a target time for luggage delivery. Then, measure it. Then publish the results. Then work on maintaining good numbers and improving poor ones.  

Add more generic EV charges 

They are overallocated to Tesla’s, which are losing market share. No electric vehicle should ever be unable to charge while parking at TLH. 

Lean into early mornings instead of ignoring them 

Early morning departures are a fact of life at TLH. Instead of pretending otherwise, design around them. 

Offer free local coffee for one hour — from 5:00 to 6:00 a.m. Partner with Tallahassee roasters. It’s inexpensive, humane, and unforgettable to anyone navigating the terminal half-awake.If somebody wants a fancy latte, they can pay for that, but a plain cup o’ joe is on the house. 

Small gestures matter most when people are tired, stressed, and short on time. 

Communicate like a service, not a press office 

When flights are delayed by weather or TSA lines back up, travelers don’t just want information. They want clarity, reassurance, and honesty. 

That means investing in communications as a core service. 

Tallahassee should have an airport app that actually matters. Live parking availability. TSA wait times. Gate changes. Weather explanations in plain English. Push alerts when things change. 

Many TLH flights leave very early in the morning. Design for that reality. Between 4:30 and 7:00 a.m., the app should default to a calm, simplified mode: gate confirmation, boarding countdown, coffee availability. No clutter. No guesswork. 

And for those picking people up, offer a simple but transformative feature: text alerts for wheels-down, baggage carousel start, and passenger exit. Less circling. Less congestion. Less frustration. 

Compete on care, not scale 

Tallahassee will never win a volume contest with Orlando or a route contest with Atlanta. That’s fine. 

What TLH can win is the experience contest. 

It can be the easiest airport in Florida to use. The least stressful. The most honest. The one that respects your time and treats you like a neighbor, not a transaction. 

And it’s not like it hasn’t been done before: 

Portland built a national reputation by showcasing local businesses and requiring street pricing, and Jacksonville – one of TLH’s prime competitors — is rewarding travelers with free parking through a frequent parker program 

Leakage doesn’t disappear because of one new route or one more subsidy vote. It disappears when enough people decide, again and again, that flying out of Tallahassee is simply the smartest, fastest and most pleasant option. 

Eddie Gonzalez Loumiet challenged Tallahassee to be bold. Making TLH a truly passenger-first airport would be a great place to start. 

January 16, 2026
Opinion by Skip Foster, Red Tape Florida 

By Skip Foster, Red Tape Florida 

Let’s dispense with the fiction. 

Tallahassee CRA officials, the day after Red Tape Florida reported on the issue, pulled a $750,000 grant request after acknowledging they could not support the project if the new building became a medical marijuana dispensary. 

One problem: The applicant is a cannabis real estate company. 

Not metaphorically. Not incidentally. Openly. 

WeWould REIT describes itself on its homepage as a Florida-focused cannabis equity REIT, complete with a prominent image of a cannabis plant and multiple pages devoted to cannabis-specific investments. 

Yet the proposal advanced through the CRA process as a generic retail project — complete with a colorful building rendering labeled “food.” 

According to Stephen Cox, the CRA’s executive director, the item was pulled only after staff concluded they could not recommend approval if the developer intended to lease the space to a dispensary. “We had a conversation with the owner, and he couldn’t guarantee that a dispensary wasn’t on the table,” Cox told the Tallahassee Democrat. 

That explanation raises a far more basic problem than zoning or community preference. Either CRA staff knew they were advancing a grant application from a cannabis-focused real estate company, or they advanced a $750,000 public subsidy without performing even minimal due diligence. There is no third option. 

This is the bureaucratic equivalent of telling a police officer that your friend said the bag he handed you was just home-grown oregano. 

A quick tour of WeWould REIT’s own website makes the point unavoidable. Its homepage identifies the firm as a cannabis equity REIT. Its “Our Focus” page is devoted entirely to cannabis real estate. Its portfolio highlights properties acquired, developed, or leased for cannabis uses. Its “About Us” section frames the company’s mission around serving the cannabis industry and navigating its regulatory and capital challenges.

 

Cannabis is not a side possibility. Cannabis is the business. 

This is the company CRA staff later said “couldn’t guarantee” a dispensary wouldn’t be part of the project. 

Which raises a question that should concern every taxpayer in a CRA district. 

What exactly is the threshold for due diligence? 

Because this was not the product of in-depth investigative journalism. It did not require subpoenas, records requests, or forensic accounting. It required typing the applicant’s name into a browser. 

Yet a 127-page grant application was assembled, packaged, placed on an agenda and nearly sent to a citizen advisory committee as a generic retail project, while the applicant’s core business model was treated as an afterthought. 

Cox acknowledged that staff had previously discussed with the developer that a dispensary would “be looked negatively by the community” and that CRA staff “would not be able to give a recommendation for approval from the staff perspective” if that were the use. 

In other words, CRA leadership understood that a marijuana dispensary was a live possibility — yet the proposal still moved forward without that issue being resolved or clearly disclosed. 

CRA staff advanced a proposal framed as “retail,” showcased a rendering labeled “food,” and confined the only clear references to a medical marijuana dispensary to page 52 and page 114 of technical attachments. 

Only after the Red Tape Florida story prompted resident calls did staff pull the item. 

“We spoke with him and said, ‘Look, if you’re trying to do something like that, that’s definitely not going to fly,’” Cox said of the dispensary use. “You can still build it, but as far as assistance goes, that’s not going to be something that we would be in favor of.” 

That may be true. But it is not reassuring. 

If CRA staff did not know this was a cannabis real estate company, that is a failure of basic competence. 

If they did know and chose to soft-pedal it in public materials, that is a failure of transparency. 

Either way, the public deserves better than a shrug and a pulled agenda item. 

That’s not redevelopment — just like it’s never oregano in the plastic bag. 

January 14, 2026
By Skip Foster, Red Tape Florida 

By Skip Foster, Red Tape Florida 

The City of Tallahassee’s 2025 Year in Review is glossy, upbeat, and brimming with accomplishments. It reads like a government that is busy, credentialed, and proud of itself. 

In some respects, that pride is justified. In others, it’s doing a lot of work to distract from questions City Hall would rather not answer. 

This is not a point-by-point rebuttal of every bullet in the document. Some things genuinely deserve credit. Others sound impressive until you ask the one question the Year in Review consistently avoids: compared to what? 

Let’s start where credit is due. 

Where the City actually earns it 

Parks and quality of life 
Tallahassee’s parks, tree canopy, and access to green space are real assets. They matter. They affect daily life. They are one of the few areas where Tallahassee truly punches above its weight. The City deserves credit for protecting and expanding them. 

This is not spin. It’s substance. 

Community programming 
Senior Games participation, neighborhood events, and civic initiatives help explain why people like living here even when they’re frustrated with everything else. These programs aren’teconomic development and don’t need to be. They succeed on their own terms. 

The problem begins when City Hall quietly slides from celebrating livability into declaring itself one of the best-run cities in Florida — as if the former automatically proves the latter. 

Claims that do real rhetorical work — and deserve scrutiny 

“Best-run city in Florida” and All-America City recognition 

What the City says: Tallahassee was named a 2025 All-America City and ranked the best-run city in Florida. 

What that actually means: The All-America City designation, awarded by the National Civic League, recognizes civic engagement and collaboration based largely on narrative applications. It does not measure wage growth, housing affordability, service speed, or economic outcomes. 

The “best-run” label comes from a WalletHub ranking that compares the scope of services to budget per capita. Translation: cities with larger governments and larger budgets can score well even if residents feel nickel-and-dimed, stuck in process, or priced out. 

What’s also true — and rarely mentioned: Through a public-records request, Red Tape Florida obtained documents showing that the City of Tallahassee spent approximately $130,000 preparing and submitting its All-America City application. That figure doesn’t even include staff time devoted to the effort — hours the City acknowledged were not tracked. 

In other words, this was not a spontaneous external validation. It was a competitive, resource-intensive bid, funded by taxpayers, with no accounting of the full internal cost. 

What’s missing:  
— Any discussion of cost versus benefit 
— Any disclosure of staff time diverted from core functions 
— Any evidence that household fundamentals improved as a result 

Awards feel less like independent validation when they come with a six-figure application budget and an uncounted amount of staff time. 

Crime reduction 

What the City says: Violent crime down 6.18 percent year-over-year and more than 30 percent over “the last couple of years.” 

What that actually means: A favorable slice of time following a nationwide crime spike. Possibly real progress. Possibly regression to the mean. Impossible to tell from what’spresented. 

What’s missing: 
— Raw incident counts 
— Population-adjusted rates 
— Multi-year trends 
— Neighborhood-level data 
— Any comparison to similar Florida cities 

If crime reduction is the crown jewel, show the jewels. Percentages without baselines are comfort food, not accountability. 

Economic development and jobs 

What the City says: More than 18,000 new jobs over five years. Conferences hosted. Awards received. Dashboards launched. 

What that actually means: Five-year aggregates hide churn and allow for larger numbers. Fewer than 4,000 jobs added per year is also true and far less encouraging. Conferences and awards document activity, not employer wins. Dashboards document motion, not outcomes. 

What’s missing (and this is the big one) 
— Net new jobs by year 
— Wage levels of new jobs 
— Median household income trends 
— Net migration of working-age residents 
— A simple list of major relocations or expansions 

This omission matters because prior Red Tape Florida reporting has already shown a consistent pattern: extensive economic-development storytelling paired with very few documented private-sector wins. The Year in Review does nothing to rebut that. It reinforces it. 

If job growth were truly transformative, residents wouldn’t need to be told. They’d feel it in paychecks, rents, and opportunity. 

Construction and capital spending 

What the City says: More than $350 million in active construction projects. 

What that actually means: The City spent money. Much of it public money. On things it already owns. 

What’s missing: 
— On-time and on-budget performance 
— Change orders 
— Long-term operating costs 
— Private investment leveraged 
— New taxable value created 

Capital spending is not growth. It’s maintenance, replacement, and occasionally expansion. Treating dollar totals as success is a classic municipal tell. 

Housing and permitting 

What the City says: Permits or reviews issued for 548 affordable housing units. 

What that actually means: Paper moved. 

What’s missing 
— Units actually built 
— Units actually occupied 
— Affordability levels and duration 
— Public subsidy per unit 
— End-to-end permitting timelines 
— Comparison to peer cities 

Red Tape Florida has documented repeatedly how time delays and layered reviews drive up costs. The Year in Review avoids that discussion entirely — while quietly counting approvals as victories. 

Dashboards and accountability 

What the City says: 133 initiatives tracked across seven priority areas. 

What that actually means: A government that does many things and measures most of them vaguely. 

What’s missing: 
— Outcome metrics versus process metrics 
— Baselines and targets 
— What happens when goals are missed 
— Data that can be downloaded and scrutinized 

When everything is a priority, nothing is. A dashboard can clarify performance or obscure it. This one leans toward the latter. 

Fiscal stewardship and bond ratings 

What the City says: AA bond ratings across all categories. 

What that actually means: Creditworthiness. The ability to borrow. 

What’s missing 
— Debt per capita trends 
— Fee and utility cost growth 
— Government staffing growth versus population 
— Whether residents are paying more for the same services 

Bond ratings tell investors the City is a safe bet. They do not tell residents they’re getting a good deal. 

The omission that ties it all together 

What’s striking about the Year in Review isn’t any single exaggeration. It’s the systematic absence of the metrics that actually determine whether a city is thriving: 

— Median income 
— Wage competitiveness 
— Housing affordability 
— Permit approval timelines 
— Private-sector job quality 
— Comparison to peer Florida cities 

And our personal favorite: airport traffic. 

Those numbers exist. The City simply chose not to show them. 

Conclusion 

Tallahassee has real strengths. Parks. Green space. Civic culture. Dedicated public employees. None of that needs to be diminished. 

But a Year in Review that leans on awards, activity, and spending while avoiding outcome-level scrutiny is not a report card. It’s a highlight reel. 

If City Hall, under Reese Goad, wants residents to believe Tallahassee is one of the best-run cities in Florida, it should stop asking them to admire the trophies and start showing them the math. 

That’s not negativity. That’s governance. 

January 14, 2026
By Skip Foster, Red Tape Florida 

By Red Tape Florida 

The Tallahassee Community Redevelopment Agency quietly pulled a proposed $750,000 Southside construction grant from its advisory board agenda Monday night after Red Tape Florida exposed that the project was intended to subsidize a marijuana dispensary — a fact not clearly disclosed in the public-facing materials. 

According to reporting by WTXL, the CRA item tied to a redevelopment project at 115 West Harrison Street was removed from consideration following public comment questioning both the use and the transparency of the grant. 

That concern echoes a prior Red Tape Florida investigation, which found that while the CRA agenda summary described the project in generic terms — emphasizing “retail” and redevelopment — the applicant’s own documents revealed a different story. Buried deep in the attachments, including an appraisal section beginning on page 52, the intended use of the property was identified as a medical marijuana dispensary, with further confirmation later in the application. 

In other words, the key word never appeared in the summary committee members and the public would reasonably rely on — only in dense supporting materials few would ever read. 

Residents speaking at the meeting made clear that the objection was not to redevelopment writ large, but to the idea that tax-increment dollars intended for Southside revitalization could be used to subsidize a cannabis retail operation, particularly without clear disclosure up front. 

It is unclear if the item will return at a later date, but the episode underscores a recurring concern with the City of Tallahassee Community Redevelopment Agency: critical project details disclosed only after public scrutiny, not before. 

For now, the $750,000 grant remains off the table — and the dispensary question remains unanswered. 

January 13, 2026
By Red Tape Florida

By Red Tape Florida 

This weekend, Tallahassee is hosting something truly historic: the World Athletics Cross Country Championships at Apalachee Regional Park, bringing the world’s best distance runners — and thousands of spectators — to our community. This isn’t just another local race or collegiate meet. This is a global sporting event that lifts Tallahassee onto the international stage and embodies exactly what sports tourism should look like.  

The 46th edition of the championships marks the first time the event has returned to the United States in more than 30 years. Apalachee Regional Park will be filled with elite runners representing more than 50 countries, competing across five championship races that will be broadcast around the world.  

This week, world-class athletes and Olympians from nations like Kenya, Uganda, Ethiopia, Spain and Great Britain arrived in Tallahassee, and spectators have descended on our community to watch them compete. Organizers are expecting more than 450 of the world’s top runners, with economic impact estimates in the millions as visitors fill hotel rooms, dine in local restaurants, and experience our city’s unique hospitality.  

What’s happening here is the culmination of years of strategic thinking and community investment. Tallahassee and Leon County didn’t stumble into this opportunity. Like any successful sports tourism destination, they built it. Apalachee Regional Park has hosted high-profile events for years — from NCAA championships to national meets — and that track record was essential to winning the bid for these world championships.  

At the center of that long game has been county leadership, especially Leon County Administrator Vince Long. Back when the county first set its sights on hosting major cross countryevents, few could have predicted that those efforts would culminate in a world championship. But it was exactly that kind of long-term vision — of recognizing sports as an economic engine and leveraging it — that put Tallahassee in a position to win a global event of this caliber.  

Under Long’s leadership, local officials, tourism partners, and community stakeholders worked together to elevate Apalachee Regional Park from a respected regional venue to a world-class site worthy of hosting the top names in athletics. That collaboration is the essence of effective sports tourism strategy: build quality facilities, cultivate experience hosting big events, and then leverage that to bring bigger opportunities home. 

This weekend, as champions chase medals and cameras broadcast our city to millions, Tallahassee isn’t just hosting a race. It’s showing what sports tourism looks like when you back a plan with persistence, partnership and leadership. 

Thanks to Vince Long and the team he’s helped steer, the world has a front-row seat — and Tallahassee is finally in the spotlight it’s long deserved. 

January 9, 2026
By Red Tape Florida

By Skip Foster, Red Tape Florida 

If you only read the agenda item, this looks easy. 

The Tallahassee Community Redevelopment Agency’s Greater Frenchtown/Southside Citizen’s Advisory Committee is being asked at its Jan. 12 meeting to approve a $750,000 grant for a modest redevelopment project at 115 West Harrison Street. 

The proposal from a developer called WeWould REIT, LLC, sounds familiar, almost comforting: a newly constructed 6,143-square-foot building, two tenants, retail and food service, site work, jobs, improved aesthetics. 

There’s even a friendly rendering. Trees. Pedestrians. A clean, modern building. A big sign on the front that reads, simply, “FOOD.” 

Nothing to see here.  

Except there is. 

And you won’t find it in the agenda summary, the staff analysis, the fiscal impact, or the recommended action. To find it, you have to do what the agenda quietly hopes you won’t: keep reading. 

What the agenda item tells you 

The CRA agenda item is careful and polished. It explains the New Construction Assistance Program, notes that the $750,000 request falls just under the program’s 25 percent cap, and emphasizes consistency with redevelopment goals. It highlights minority business participation, job creation, and long-term economic benefits. 

What it never does — not once — is tell commissioners or the public what the building is actually intended to be used for. 

There is no mention of any controversial or sensitive use. No hint of anything beyond ordinary neighborhood retail. If you stopped here, you’d have no reason to ask questions. 

The rendering helps reinforce that impression. 

About that “FOOD” sign 

Renderings aren’t neutral. They’re persuasion tools, designed to help decision-makers visualize what they’re being asked to approve. 

This one leans hard into normalcy. The most prominent visual cue on the building isn’t a logo or a tenant name, but a generic, reassuring word: food. 

That choice matters. If the project were truly just a speculative shell with no foreseeable end use, the rendering wouldn’t need to guide the viewer’s imagination so carefully. And if the CRA were comfortable openly subsidizing the actual intended use, there’d be no reason to dress it up as something else. 

Still, none of this proves anything. Not yet. 

For that, you have to turn a few more pages. Dozens of them, actually. 

Turn to page 52 

On page 52 of the application attachments — deep inside the technical appraisal materials — the first crack appears. 

In a discussion of buyer intent and marketing history, the appraisal states that the buyers “intend to redevelop the property into a medical marijuana facility.” 

That’s it. One sentence. One time. No emphasis. No explanation. Just a factual statement of purpose. 

If you didn’t know to look for it, you’d miss it. 

Turn to page 114 

Keep going. 

On page 114, the appraisal documents do it again. This time, even more plainly. The borrower plans to convert the property into a cannabis dispensary. 

Again, one mention. One sentence. Buried in valuation paperwork few people read closely and no one summarizes for the board. 

So, let’s pause here to say thank you — sincerely — to the appraiser. Appraisers don’t editorialize. They document reality. And in this case, reality made it into the record even when the City chose not to surface it. 

What’s missing — and why that matters 

The problem here isn’t legality. Medical marijuana is legal in Florida. Zoning questions are separate and ongoing. 

The problem is disclosure. 

The CRA agenda item does not merely fail to highlight the marijuana use — it actively constructs an alternative story. Retail. Food. Jobs. A pleasant building. A clean rendering. Meanwhile, the only honest descriptions of the project’s purpose live on page 52 and page 114 of a dense technical appendix. 

That’s not transparency. That’s a head fake. 

Especially when the developer isn’t shy elsewhere. 

What the developer says when City Hall isn’t involved 

Outside the CRA paperwork, WeWould is perfectly clear about what kind of company it is. Its website openly markets cannabis real estate, including cultivation centers and dispensary facilities. 

The Tallahassee Frenchtown site is already listed in the company’s online portfolio — before the CRA has even voted — as an available asset. 

So, the developer is transparent with investors and the market. The appraiser is transparent in the valuation documents. Only the City’s agenda item pretends this is something else. 

Then there’s the money question 

CRA staff will likely argue that this is just about the building, not the tenant. But that argument rings hollow when you look at who’s asking. 

WeWould REIT describes itself as a private-equity cannabis real estate platform with a stated ambition of assembling a $250 million portfolio and exiting to the capital markets. It touts quarterly dividends and investor returns. 

According to the NCAP application, the company has already invested roughly $1.6 million in the project and has secured a $1.1 million construction loan. 

And yet, it’s asking the CRA to contribute $750,000 — nearly the maximum allowed — from taxpayer-backed redevelopment funds. 

That raises a fair question the agenda item never asks: why is a well-capitalized, nationally oriented cannabis real estate firm seeking public subsidy to build a dispensary in one of Tallahassee’s most historically disadvantaged neighborhoods? 

The reveal the CRA avoided 

If the CRA believes subsidizing a marijuana dispensary is a wise redevelopment strategy for the Southside/Frenchtown district, it should say so plainly and defend that choice openly. 

Instead, the truth was left to page 52 and page 114, hidden behind a “FOOD” sign and a carefully sanitized agenda summary. 

That may get an item through a meeting. 

It shouldn’t get a free pass from the public. 

January 8, 2026
By Skip Foster, Red Tape Florida 

People who actually went in the water to do some good 
 

By Red Tape Florida staff 

The Red Tide Awards exist to document how red tape spreads when process goes unchecked. The Lifeguard designation exists for the opposite reason. 

In a year when delay was rewarded and avoidance passed for governance, a small number of people did something unfashionable: they intervened. They raised their hands, took public positions, and forced issues into the open — often at personal or political cost.  

The 2025 Red Tide Lifeguards are individuals who stepped in early enough to stop bureaucratic blooms from spreading — or at least made it harder for them to hide. 

Rep. Jason Shoaf, Florida House of Representatives 

When local governments quietly test the limits of state law, the easiest response for elected officials is silence. In 2025, Rep. Jason Shoaf chose the opposite approach. 

Shoaf publicly challenged Gulf County over its handling of private-provider inspection fees, calling out practices that appeared to conflict with clear legislative intent. Rather than letting the issue remain a local administrative dispute, he elevated it to a statewide compliance question — forcing transparency where there had been none. 

That matters. Private-provider laws only work if local governments follow them. Shoaf’s intervention didn’t just defend a statute; it sent a signal that defiance of state law would no longer be cost-free or invisible. 

Brian Welch, Leon County Commission 

Few figures in Florida’s growth debates have been as consistent — or as effective — at calling out contradiction as Brian Welch. 

Welch has spent years dismantling the familiar canard that communities can oppose growth while simultaneously lamenting the lack of affordable housing. In 2025, his commentary and public engagement sharpened that argument, exposing how NIMBY-driven obstruction is often repackaged as concern, planning, or “neighborhood character.” 

His contribution wasn’t procedural reform. It was narrative containment. By repeatedly forcing opponents of housing to reconcile their stated values with actual outcomes, Welch helped limit the political cover that allows bad policy to metastasize unchallenged. 

Christian Caban, Leon County Commission 

Fire services fees are rarely sexy. They are also rarely scrutinized — which is precisely why they grow so fast. 

In 2025, Leon County Commissioner Christian Caban publicly pressed the City of Tallahassee over massive increases in fire services fees tied to new construction, questioning both the methodology and the lack of proportionality. The defining fact wasn’t disagreement; it was accountability. Caban forced the issue into daylight and demanded justification for costs that had quietly tripled. 

That kind of oversight is uncommon in intergovernmental relationships, where deference often replaces diligence. By refusing to treat fee escalation as inevitable, Caban slowed a bloom that thrives on assumption and inertia. 

Al Wilson, Florida Building Code Compliance Association 

Private-provider reform in Florida has produced no shortage of quiet frustration — and very few public advocates willing to absorb the blowback. 

As CEO of the Florida Building Code Compliance Association, Al Wilson has repeatedly stepped into that gap. In 2025, he continued to challenge local governments that undermined private-provider statutes through selective discounts, inconsistent fee structures, and procedural workarounds that preserved control while defeating purpose. 

Wilson’s role isn’t symbolic. He has brought data, comparisons, and persistence to a fight many would prefer to avoid. In a system where local resistance often counts on fatigue and fragmentation, sustained leadership matters. Wilson provided it. 

Why these designations matter 

None of these Lifeguards solved Florida’s red tape problem. That was never the standard. 

They did something rarer: they interrupted it. 

They acted early, publicly, and with enough clarity to make avoidance harder. In a year defined by bureaucratic blooms, that was enough to keep parts of the water clear — and to earn recognition for doing the work most people avoid. 

The Red Tide Awards will continue to document where the process goes toxic. The Lifeguard designation exists to remind readers that intervention is possible — and that it usually starts with someone willing to step in, before the bloom takes over. 

January 6, 2026
By Red Tape Florida staff 

By Red Tape Florida staff 

Florida has no shortage of end-of-year scorecards, watchdog lists, and awards nobody campaigns for. The Red Tide Awards proudly join that tradition — with a saltwater twist. 

Each year, Red Tape Florida documents how routine rules and procedures quietly metastasize into delay, dysfunction, and missed opportunity. The Red Tide Awards are our annual attempt to step back and call out the worst of it — not as gotchas, but as case studies in what happens when the process goes unchecked. 

Think of these less as honors and more as field reports. When red tape behaves like an actual red tide — spreading slowly, feeding on inaction, and choking off progress — we mark the bloom. 

Every entry below earns its place with one thing Florida government reliably produces: evidence. Each Red Tide citation is anchored by a specific, verifiable fact that made the damage impossible to ignore. A few blooms were contained. Most were not. 

Grand Red Tide Award of 2025 

North Florida Fair luxury watch scandal 

Compensation alone was not the scandal. The defining fact was how easily private-sector incentive structures coexisted with a public-facing mission, absent clear policy, transparent justification, or meaningful oversight. The money moved cleanly. The accountability did not. 

This was red tide at full visibility. Documents surfaced. Emails raised questions. Lines blurred. And the more the arrangement was examined, the harder it became to determine where public stewardship ended, and private discretion began. If the Red Tide Awards are meant to capture the moment when red tape stops being abstract and becomes undeniable, this was it — a bloom that combined opacity, incentives, and public dollars in a way readers immediately understood as wrong. 

Worst Systemic Red Tide Bloom of 2025 

Florida local governments’ war on private-provider inspections 

In 2025, Florida local governments continued imposing new fees, redundant inspections, and procedural hurdles on licensed private-provider inspectors, despite state law expressly authorizing private providers to speed construction, reduce backlogs, and lower costs. 

From Gulf County to Alachua County and onward to larger, more sophisticated jurisdictions, the same playbook appeared again and again. Instead of functioning as the release valve the Legislature intended, private providers became targets of bureaucratic resistance. Jurisdictions layered on so-called “administrative” charges, cancelled inspections, and reinserted government review into processes that were supposed to bypass it entirely. 

What makes this bloom the worst systemic failure of 2025 is not any single abuse, but its repetition. Different places, same tactics. When government responds to lawful efficiency by recreating the very obstacles the law was designed to remove, red tape hasn’t just spread — it has evolved. The good news — state legislators like Rep. Jason Shoaf are starting to take notice.

Local Policy Bloom 
Caving to protest as planning — City of Ormond Beach 

The defining failure wasn’t secrecy or records management. It was that a handful of organized opponents were effectively allowed to dictate outcomes, even though the project complied with existing rules and planning frameworks. Rather than enforcing adopted policy, elected officials treated protest volume as a proxy for merit. 

This was red tide by capitulation. When commissions substitute crowd management for governance, the result isn’t compromise — it’s paralysis. And when new housing can be stalled simply by being unpopular with nearby residents, the message is clear: the rules exist until someone objects loudly enough. 

Chronic Bloom 

NIMBY veto power and the slow strangulation of housing supply 

Across Florida in 2025, multiple local governments responded to organized neighborhood opposition by delaying, downsizing, or effectively killing housing projects that complied with adopted plans and zoning. 

In these cases, the red tide wasn’t regulation itself — it was elected officials declining to exercise authority. Rather than making hard decisions and owning the consequences, commissions defaulted to delay, deferral, and “additional review,” allowing a small number of opponents to achieve what formal policy could not. 

This bloom is chronic because it compounds over time. Each stalled project tightens supply. Each capitulation signals that rules are negotiable under pressure. And each missed housing opportunity pushes affordability further out of reach — all without a single vote to change the underlying policy. 

If red tide thrives on inaction, NIMBY vetoes are its ideal nutrient source. 

Major Bloom  

City of Tallahassee / Leon County economic development apparatus 

That outcome is striking given the size and cost of the region’s economic development ecosystem, which includes multiple publicly funded entities, boards, consultants, and partner organizations. Throughout the year, projects were discussed, tours were conducted, and interest was expressed. What never happened was a closing announcement. In this case, red tape didn’t kill projects outright — it simply outlasted them. 

It begs the question: When will city and county leaders face the fact that the Office of Economic Vitality simply isn’t generating meaingful results?

Secondary Bloom 

Government growth untethered from population growth in Leon County 

New data published in 2025 showed that while Leon County’s population grew just 4.4 percent, local government staffing and associated spending increased by approximately 42 percent over a similar period. 

That tenfold disparity highlights a bureaucratic bloom that expanded quietly, largely outside public debate. While residents saw modest population growth and limited private-sector expansion, government continued to grow at a pace that far exceeded the community it serves — a classic case of red tide flourishing without a corresponding public need. 

Persistent Bloom 
Statewide implementation of Florida’s condo safety laws 

Entering 2025, condo associations across Florida were still operating under inconsistent and evolving guidance on inspection standards, reserve requirements, and enforcement timelines, despite statutory changes enacted well before the year began. 

Boards faced escalating costs and conflicting advice from engineers, attorneys, and local officials. The bloom persisted not because safety was disputed, but because clarity never arrived. The longer uncertainty lingered, the more decision-making froze — particularly in older, middle-income communities least equipped to absorb sudden financial shocks. 

Localized Bloom 

The infamous “shed” permitting saga, City of Tallahassee 

The defining fact was not complexity, safety, or neighborhood impact. It was that a modest, noncontroversial accessory structure became subject to repeated reviews, shifting requirements, and procedural resets, none of which materially improved the outcome. The shed did not change. The process did. 

What made this a red tide moment was scale in miniature. If a basic shed can generate confusion, delay, and escalating compliance demands, the problem is not the project — it’s the system. Like a localized environmental bloom, the damage here was small in footprint but unmistakable in diagnosis: when process overwhelms common sense, nothing is too minor to be slowed to a crawl. 

Uncontained Spread 
Miami-Dade County / City of Miami permitting process 

Rather than early containment through clear ownership of the process, applications circulated across multiple departments, each adding review without responsibility for the clock. The result was a slow but steady spread: higher carrying costs, delayed projects, and a permitting system whose complexity became the story. 

Bloom Contained 
Where the water cleared in 2025 

Not every potential bloom turned toxic. 

In a handful of cases, agencies identified problems early, clarified authority, and acted decisively — preventing delay from metastasizing. These efforts shared common traits: a single point of accountability, realistic timelines, and a willingness to say yes or no. 

They weren’t flashy. They were functional. And in a year defined by red tide, that stood out. Here are some entities that found a way to do it right. 

Doing it right: City of Tallahassee and Leon County DesignWorks urban design studio 

DesignWorks earns a spot here because it is one of the few local-government functions in the region that’s built to solve problems early rather than multiply them later — a joint city-county design studio explicitly intended to help projects get shaped correctly before they enter the permitting grinder.  

Doing it right: City of Jacksonville — Mayor Donna Deegan’s permitting overhaul 

Jacksonville gets credit for publishing a clear, multi-step permitting improvement plan and backing it with measurable outcomes — including a reported reduction in permit approval timelines from about 100 days to about 40 days after process and platform changes (JaxEPICS), plus organizational moves aimed at eliminating internal silos.  

Doing it right: City of Fort Walton Beach — code enforcement transparency 

Fort Walton Beach stands out for doing something most Florida cities never do: treating code enforcement like a system residents should understand rather than a trap to stumble into. The city held a public Community Code Enforcement Workshop and rolled out a resident-facing assistance guide designed to help property owners navigate compliance before fines escalate.  

Doing it right: Pinellas County — after-the-fact permit amnesty 

Pinellas took a practical approach to compliance by waiving penalty fees for after-the-fact permits through Dec. 31, 2025 — a policy designed to pull unpermitted repairs into the light without punishing homeowners with double-fees for trying to fix the paperwork 

Closing 

Red Tide 2025 wasn’t about bad intentions. It was about what happens when process goes unchecked and no one owns the outcome. 

Red Tape Florida will continue to document where red tape spreads — and where it’s successfully contained. Because like environmental red tide, bureaucratic blooms are not inevitable. But once ignored, they are far harder to clean up. 

December 31, 2025
By Red Tape Florida staff

To our readers

Red Tape Florida conducted a direct, extended interview with the CEO of a fast-growing technology company who requested anonymity to protect current business relationships and ongoing operations. We spoke with the CEO firsthand and at length about his company’s efforts to locate a major new facility in Tallahassee-Leon County and why those efforts ultimately failed.

We agreed to anonymity only after confirming the individual’s role, the company’s legitimacy, and the factual timeline described below, including the company’s eventual decision to locate a significant operation in another Florida market. This account reflects the CEO’s own words and experiences and is published because it offers a rare, inside view of how Tallahassee loses projects it publicly claims to want.

A Red Tape Florida exclusive, by Skip Foster

For nearly a year, the CEO of a fast-growing technology company tried to bring a major new facility to Tallahassee-Leon County.

He believed the city had the right ingredients: a major research university, access to technical talent, and a long-stated ambition to attract innovation-driven employers. He wasn’t shopping the project broadly or playing jurisdictions against one another. He wanted Tallahassee to work.

It didn’t.

“Literally nothing happened,” the CEO told Red Tape Florida. “I spent close to a year trying to move it forward. Eventually, I just gave up.”

The CEO leads a company operating at the cutting edge of advanced technology, developing equipment that requires highly specialized research, manufacturing capacity, and a skilled technical workforce. In 2023, the company began searching for a location for a significant new facility that would combine research, engineering, and manufacturing under one roof.

Tallahassee seemed, at least initially, like a logical fit.

But what unfolded was not a deal that fell apart at the margins or collapsed over money. It was, instead, a slow grind of polite engagement, shifting responsibility, and an absence of clear leadership. It fits the pattern of a lack of economic development performance Red Tape Florida wrote about earlier this year.

“Everyone was friendly. Everyone was welcoming,” the CEO said. “There were follow-up emails, welcome materials, lots of conversations.”

What never materialized was progress.

“The problem wasn’t attitude,” he said. “It was leadership.”

According to the CEO, the project was repeatedly passed between agencies, organizations, and stakeholders — including the Office of Economic Vitality — with no single entity empowered to lead or make decisions.

“There was no quarterback,” he said. “We were handed off from one group to another. Everyone was involved, but no one was actually in charge.”

As months passed, forward movement stalled while approvals were sought, internal checks were required, and additional voices entered the process.

“It felt like an endless maze,” he said. “Every time we thought we were getting somewhere, there was another step, another delay, another person who needed to weigh in.”

The CEO stressed that he encountered capable and well-intentioned individuals along the way. But without a clear chain of command, those individual efforts  were never translated into action.

“Good people don’t matter if the system doesn’t allow anyone to lead,” he said.

After roughly a year of unproductive engagement, the CEO began conversations with officials in another Florida market.

The contrast was immediate.

“In the first meeting, things started moving,” he said. “They understood what we were trying to do, they were clear about what was possible, and they acted.”

Within months, a framework was in place. Soon after, a formal agreement followed. Plans moved forward for a facility that would include manufacturing space, research labs, offices, and room for expansion.

The CEO described the project as exactly the type of development Tallahassee routinely says it wants: advanced manufacturing, high-paying technical jobs, and long-term growth potential.

What continues to frustrate him is that Tallahassee was never competing in a crowded field.

“This wasn’t a bidding war,” he said. “We weren’t shopping the project all over the country. Tallahassee had the inside track.”

Only when it became clear that nothing was going to happen did he seriously look elsewhere.

“We needed to move,” he said. “Time matters when you’re building a company.”

He emphasized that his company was not asking for extraordinary incentives or special treatment.

“We weren’t asking for anything unusual,” he said. “We were asking for less than other successful projects in Florida have received.”

Instead, the process felt designed to delay rather than enable.

“It was like a video game,” he said. “You clear one level and immediately face another obstacle.”

Eventually, delay became decisive.

“I didn’t want to walk away,” he said. “But at some point, you have to make a decision.”

Asked what Tallahassee-Leon County could do differently to win similar projects in the future, his answer was straightforward.

“They need clear leadership,” he said. “One entity that owns the relationship with business, quarterbacks the process, and makes decisions.”

He paused before adding:

“It’s great to feel welcomed. But welcoming isn’t the same thing as leading.”

December 22, 2025

By Skip Foster, Red Tape Florida 

A recent Wall Street Journal analysis offers a stark, real-world lesson in housing policy — one that Tallahassee and Leon County should be studying closely. 

The difference wasn’t developers, Wall Street, or demographic change. It was policy. 

In 2022, St. Paul enacted one of the nation’s strictest rent-control ordinances, capping annual increases at 3 percent — even on vacant units, with no inflation adjustment. Minneapolis chose a different path. It avoided rent control and focused almost entirely on allowing more housing to be built, rewriting zoning and land-use rules to permit more apartments and density. 

The results were immediate and dramatic. 

According to HUD data cited by the Journal, apartment-building permits in St. Paul fell 79 percent in early 2022 compared with the prior year. Investment activity froze. Developers halted projects. Lenders pulled back. Property values declined by at least 6 percent. St. Paul has since been forced to roll back parts of the ordinance, exempting newer construction and reconsidering the policy altogether. 

Minneapolis experienced the opposite. Apartment permits surged nearly fourfold. Downtown neighborhoods rebounded faster. New supply came online. And despite ongoing affordability challenges, rent growth in Minneapolis lagged both St. Paul and the national average during the same period. 

This wasn’t a theory. It was a side-by-side governance experiment — and it validated a warning economists have been making for decades – rent controls and growth-stifling measures hurt far more than they help. 

As Swedish economist Assar Lindbeck put it more than 50 years ago, “In many cases rent control appears to be the most efficient technique presently known to destroy a city — except for bombing.” 

Why this matters in Tallahassee and Leon County 

This matters because recent decisions in Tallahassee and Leon County point unmistakably toward the St. Paul model. 

Just weeks ago, the Leon County Commission adopted changes to the comprehensive plan that further restricts where and how housing can be built. The vote was framed as smart growth and community protection. In practice, it adds friction, delay, and uncertainty — the very conditions that cause builders and lenders to pause or walk away. 

Those early warning signs are already showing up locally. In a recent Tallahassee Real Estate Weekly market update, longtime Tallahassee broker and analyst Joe Manausa noted this key finding: “Homes in the lowest 25 percent climbed from roughly $147,000 in 2020 to about $210,000 in 2025. That is close to a 43 percent increase, and it represents the sharpest appreciation of any segment.” 

Manausa added: “When the most affordable homes rise the fastest, tens of thousands of potential future buyers find themselves pushed farther from ownership” 

At the city level, Tallahassee continues to talk about affordability while piling on layers of process, fees, discretionary review, and political veto points that make housing slower and more expensive to deliver. The language sounds pro-housing. The outcomes are not. 

Good intentions don’t override incentives 

One of the most revealing findings in the Journal’s reporting is how rent control altered landlord behavior. Because rent increases were capped annually and vacancy increases were banned, landlords began raising rents every year — even when they previously wouldn’t have — simply to avoid falling behind. Small owners sold. Maintenance was deferred. Investment left. 

This is the part often missing from local housing debates: capital is mobile. 

When government sends a signal that investment is risky, unpredictable, or politically constrained, capital doesn’t argue. It doesn’t negotiate. It goes elsewhere — often across the river. 

Minneapolis understood that reality. St. Paul learned it the hard way. 

Tallahassee and Leon County are now choosing which example to follow. 

The choice ahead 

The Wall Street Journal didn’t write about Tallahassee. But it could have. 

The lesson from the Twin Cities isn’t that housing is easy, or markets are perfect. It’s that local governments can make housing crises worse — very quickly — by mistaking control for competence. 

There is still time to choose a different path. One focused on supply, speed, and certainty rather than restriction and symbolism. One that acts like Minneapolis instead of St. Paul. 

Because once projects stall and capital leaves, reversing course is far harder. 

And by then, the damage is already done. 

December 16, 2025
By Skip Foster, Red Tape Florida