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

How hot does it have to get for a fire station to cost $34 million? 

That’s the burning question after Leon County Commissioner Christian Caban called for a formal vote on local fire projects, citing “staggering costs” that have quietly ballooned over the past few years. His concern comes as Tallahassee prepares to break ground on Fire Station 17 in the southwestern part of the city. The new station will clock in at $34 million — nearly four times the cost of similar fire stations in nearby Alachua County. 

Wait — four times? 

Yep. In 2022, Alachua County built Station 80 in Hawthorne for just $7.7 million. The following year, it added Station 33 in East Gainesville for $9 million. That means the average cost of a new fire station in Alachua is under $9 million — and Tallahassee is spending nearly $25 million more for Station 17.  

Now, to be fair, one could argue that costs vary depending on size, staffing, and equipment — and that’s true. So, let’s look at the most basic metric of all: how many households each station is expected to serve. 

Station 17 in Tallahassee is projected to serve about 11,500 households. That’s not insignificant — in fact, it’s nearly twice the number served by some rural stations. But it’s not dramatically more than what Alachua’s stations cover: Station 33 in East Gainesville serves an estimated 8,600 households, and Station 80 covers around 7,400. 

So, while Tallahassee’s Station 17 serves roughly 35% more households than the average new Alachua station, it costs nearly 300% more. 

“Where there’s there smoke, there’s fire and there is definitely smoke when it comes to the fire services fee and how it’s being spent,” Caban told Red Tape Florida. “It’s unacceptable for us to be paying $34 million for a single fire station when surrounding counties are paying a fraction of that cost.  

“These fire service fees directly impact the cost of living in our community and we cannot just rubber-stamp them without serious due diligence.” 

Meanwhile, Alachua County continues to build functional, efficient firehouses that meet basic public safety needs without blowing through taxpayer funds. Gainesville isn’t exactly known for its fiscal conservatism, so when it’s making Tallahassee look like Dubai, something’s off. 

Commissioner Caban has emerged as the leading voice raising red flags, asking for transparency and accountability before more millions are committed. He’s also said what many in the community are quietly thinking: Why does everything the City of Tallahassee builds seem to cost double, triple, or quadruple what other cities spend? 

While city officials might defend the fire services fee by noting it’s “only a few dollars a month,” that phrase has become the oldest trick in the local government playbook. Whether it’s stormwater, garbage, fire service, or a thousand other line items, those modest monthly charges quietly stack up — and for working families, they eventually hit hard. 

According to the latest budget projections, the fire fee will generate more than $40 million this year alone, paid directly by homeowners and businesses — on top of their property taxes. And if you live in Leon County but outside city limits? You’re still paying. That’s because a sizable portion of county fire service is now contracted out to the city, with the county transferring nearly $10 million of taxpayer dollars to fund it. In short, everyone’s paying — even if you don’t vote for the commissioners making these decisions. 

It’s a shell game that hides the true size of local government. Instead of raising the property tax millage, which would be politically unpopular and more visible, officials slap fees on your utility bill or create special assessments that rarely get the same scrutiny 

Fire protection is not a luxury — it’s one of the most basic and essential functions of local government. The price tag should reflect that, not some grand vision that prioritizes bells and whistles over core service. 

Commissioners owe it to their constituents — especially in lower-income, high-need neighborhoods like those served by Station 17 — to explain why the city is spending $34 million for a firehouse when neighboring counties are doing it for a fraction of the cost. 

Kudos to Commissioner Caban for not letting this one slip quietly through the consent agenda.  

Firefighting may be expensive. But it doesn’t have to be extravagant. 

Imagine having your home or business tied up in a lien worth almost three-quarters of a million dollars, not because you ignored a serious threat, but because inspectors took forever to verify your compliance. 

That’s exactly what happened in Lauderdale Lakes, Broward County’s hidden slice of government overreach. A CBS Miami / News4JAX I-Team investigation revealed the city’s latest magic trick: turning routine property fixes into windfall revenues—to the tune of $300,000 in code-enforcement income projected in the 2025 budget (up 161.6% over last year). 

One case sounds scripted by Kafka: Alan Levy, a prominent landlord, said his tenant’s minor bathroom permit violation should’ve cost around $18,000 to fix. Instead, it hung fire for more than 1,000 days, ballooning into a $740,000 lien—all while the city apparently had no digital system for reviewing compliance  

“It took seven or eight months to do $18,000 worth of minor work… one delay after another,” Levy told CBS. “When I went in for my lien reduction, [city staff] said, ‘We don’t have a platform for that—you’ll have to speak to the city attorney.’”  

Then there’s Kenneth and Mildred Bordeaux, an elderly couple with a duplex and a mortgage they hoped to leave to their kids. They were hit with $366,000 in fines because inspectors waited 222 days to recheck simple fixes—like cracked outlet covers and broken window handles—and then hit them with daily, $1,500 perviolation fines during the delay. Kenneth’s quote says it all: 

“I feel like I’m just being beaten with a sledgehammer.”  

Here’s the rub: the city’s 2025 budget didn’t just casually mention it—it relied on code-enforcement revenue as a major funding lever. When pressed, the city attorney refused to comment, telling CBS Miami the issue is “pending litigation before a magistrate”  

So what does all this add up to? 

1. Profit-first code enforcement. The city is weaponizing backlog and bureaucratic inertia into a cash cow. 

2. Innocent homeowners and business owners—the Bordeauxs, Levy—get stuck between punishment and paperwork, with no digital system to verify whether they’ve complied. 

3. A broken appeals process. No streamlined path to challenge or reduce liens—just silence and red tape. 

4. Taxation without transparency. The fines are levied before services are complete, and residents have zero idea how to fight back. 

Lauderdale Lakes’ story is a cautionary tale. When enforcement is untethered from accountability, government doesn’t protect—it preys. 

So, you want to open a coffee shop in Tallahassee? You’ve got a lease, a business plan, and some solid beans from a local roaster. Should be easy, right? 
 
Cue the circus music. 
 
Before you serve your first oat milk latte, you’ll need the blessing of a dizzying array of government entities, each with its own forms, timelines, and “standard review windows” that make continental drift look speedy. 

Let’s start local. You’ll need: 

• Business Tax Receipt from the City of Tallahassee 

• Certificate of Occupancy from Growth Management 

• Health inspection 

• ADA compliance 
   

But we’re just getting started. For civil review, you’ll need even more: 

• Land Use Compliance Certificate 

• Natural Features Inventory Exemption 

• Traffic Concurrency 

• Site Plan 

• Environmental Management Permit 

Then, if triggered, you may also need: 

• Right-of-Way Permit 

• Letter of Agreement 

• Parking Standards Review 

And if the state is involved, the project may also trigger a FDEP water permit DEP sewer permit. That’s all civil. For building, you need a building permit, which is no simple task. 

Next up: A visit to the Sign Police. If you want to do anything the least bit creative with your sign – including anything to do with its size, location, illumination, location on the building, etc. – you may need a variance from a board of volunteers, which meets on a monthly cycle that may or may not fit your project timeline. 

Want outdoor seating? Heaven help you if your space’s espresso machine is interpreted to mean your coffee shop is located in a non-retail, making it a “non- conforming use.”  That kicks it to a different zoning code altogether — possibly requiring a new permit and perhaps even a public notice to neighbors, who may suddenly discover they’re deeply offended by caffeine. 
 
Now zoom out. You’ll also need: 

• State license from the Department of Business and Professional Regulation (DBPR)Florida Sales Tax Certificate 

• Federal EIN registration 

• Music license 

• Workers’ compensation coverage 

How long does all this take? Officially: “Depends.” 
 
Unofficially: anywhere from 10-12  months, assuming you don’t run into a reviewer on vacation or a missing document that mysteriously got “kicked back” into the void. And, of course, given that you are moving through the building department, the growth management department, the traffic department, the electric department, the underground utilities department, public infrastructure and more, it’s not exactly a system set up to be business-friendly. 
 
And the kicker? After all this hoop-jumping, no one — not a single agency — can tell you what your total startup costs will be. Each fee is siloed, and there’s no master checklist. 
 
This isn’t just a Tallahassee issue. It’s a Florida issue. But as the seat of government, the capital should be a model of streamlined small-business support. Instead, we’ve created a permitting gauntlet so cumbersome it rewards only the well-connected or the well-lawyered. 
 
So the next time you walk into your neighborhood café, tip your barista. And maybe also offer condolences to the owner, who probably aged two years before opening day — all because they had the audacity to sell muffins and macchiatos in the Sunshine State. 

The green T-shirts will be out in force at City Hall this week — a visual show of concern, conviction, and community spirit. These neighbors care deeply about Tallahassee’s future, and that deserves respect. 

But passion, no matter how well-intentioned, must still be weighed against facts, data, and consequences. And the truth is: opposing this Comprehensive Plan means saying no to the very kinds of growth that can make our city more affordable, inclusive, and resilient. 

It’s time to take a hard look at what this debate is really about — and what’s at stake if we let fear win out over thoughtful planning. 

The proposed Comprehensive Plan update is the product of years of work — workshops, studies, legal review, and public input. Its central goal? Encourage smart, sustainable development inside the urban service area, where infrastructure already exists. That’s not sprawl. That’s the opposite of sprawl. 

Urban infill has long been championed as the antidote to environmental degradation and costly, inefficient growth patterns. Yet somehow, even this approach is now under attack. 

Some of the loudest critics claim to support “smart growth,” but what they oppose is precisely the kind of development that allows for vibrant neighborhoods, shorter commutes, and more housing options for working families. The contradiction is clear: you can’t be against sprawl and against infill — unless you’re against all growth entirely. 

Let’s be honest about what that means. 

Cities that refuse to grow — or make growth virtually impossible — tend to struggle with increasing poverty, higher crime, and declining opportunity. You can find that pattern across the country, from California to the Rust Belt. The economic research is clear: places that stop building start falling behind. 

We see that impact locally, too. Tallahassee has actually lost population in recent years. Its housing supply is tight, prices are rising, and families are getting squeezed out. Killing this plan won’t solve that — it will make it worse. Even first-year economics students understand what happens when supply is restricted: costs go up. Way up. 

That brings us to equity. Many of the arguments against the plan are wrapped in language about neighborhood “character” or “charm.” But we should pause and ask: who benefits when we prevent new housing or retail from entering a neighborhood? Too often, it’s those who already have comfort and access — not those who are still trying to get a foothold. 

“Not in my backyard” may sound like a local planning issue. But it often functions as a wall — one that keeps out people who don’t look the same, earn the same, or live the same way. That’s not how vibrant cities are built. 

Then there’s the claim that this is all moving too fast. The reality? The process has been unfolding for nearly five years, with more than 50 public meetings, extensive public comment, and expert input throughout. This isn’t a rushed job. It’s a careful, deliberate process — and now is the time to move forward. 

If we cry “too fast” every time something changes, we risk dulling that phrase into background noise — which is dangerous when something actually is rammed through without scrutiny. This plan doesn’t deserve that label. 

It deserves support. 

The bottom line is this: the proposed Comprehensive Plan doesn’t force growth. It simply allows it — in the right places, in the right way, and with the right priorities. 

To those in the green shirts: your advocacy matters. Your voices matter. But this time, you’re fighting the wrong fight. The stakes are too high to cling to the status quo. 

Tallahassee must be a city that welcomes new families, builds for the future, and creates opportunities for everyone — not just those who already have them. 

Standing still isn’t safe. It’s costly. Let’s not let good intentions lead us to bad outcomes. 

In a May 29 Tallahassee Democrat op-ed, a local resident laments Tallahassee’s new growth plan, wringing hands over trees, neighborhood “character,” and supposed flows in a new Comprehensive Plan. But strip away the foliage and euphemisms, and what’s left is a familiar chorus: “I’m not against all growth—just this growth.”  
 
We’ve heard this tune before, and it’s getting old. 
 
Let’s call this what it is: the Smart Growth Shuffle. It’s performed by people who claim they hate sprawl, but also oppose urban infill. Who say they support affordable housing—just not here. Who support more density—just not next door. What they really support is nothing at all changing within their line of sight. 
 
It’s time to make these folks own their true belief: They don’t want any growth at all. 

This new comp plan, which encourages development within already built environments and reduces bureaucratic red tape, is the very definition of “smart growth.” It promotes infill, encourages mixed uses, and supports a more sustainable and efficient pattern of development. And yet, it’s being opposed by the very people who claim to support those principles.  
 
So which is it? Do you want growth that is denser and more environmentally conscious, or do you want to keep the city frozen in amber? Because you can’t have it both ways. 
 
Spoiler alert: this is not about trees. This is NIMBYism with a nice haircut and a compost bin. 

Meanwhile, the consequences of this “keep it just the way it is” mentality are already playing out. Leon County has actually lost population in recent years.  

That might be fine if you’re protecting some sleepy mountain town. But this is Florida’s capital, home to two major universities, a state college and a regional economy. Growth should be a feature, not a bug. And when people can’t find housing—because the same people shouting “no sprawl!” are also saying “no apartments!”—they look elsewhere. 
 
The result? A shrinking tax base, fewer young professionals, and more pressure on existing services. Over time, that erodes opportunity and leads to exactly the things people say they want to avoid: poverty, inequality, and crime. 

And those trends are already visible. Leon County’s poverty rate sits at 17.6%, well above the Florida average of 12.3% (U.S. Census). Its violent crime rate is 34.3, compared to a national average of 22.7 (Best Places). That’s not just an economic concern—it’s a quality of life concern. 

Want to improve public safety? Build stronger neighborhoods. Want to reduce poverty? Attract employers and workers with housing options they can afford. That starts with embracing policies that allow our city to grow responsibly. 
 
This plan does that. It’s not perfect—no plan ever is—but it represents a good-faith effort to address Tallahassee’s growth challenges. It streamlines overly restrictive policies, encourages development near existing infrastructure, and lays the groundwork for more housing choices across the economic spectrum. 
 
The people standing in the way of this plan aren’t trying to “protect” Tallahassee. They’re trying to preserve a narrow slice of it, usually one that benefits them. And they’re doing it at the expense of younger families, renters, students, and workers who are just looking for a place to call home. 
 
If we let that mindset dominate, Tallahassee won’t stay the same—it will slowly decline. That’s the real threat to our community character. 
 
Let’s stop mistaking obstructionism for wisdom. It’s time to grow—smartly, sustainably, and unapologetically. 

If you’ve ever wanted to watch a group of well-meaning citizens twist themselves into philosophical pretzels, look no further than the debate over Tallahassee’s new Comprehensive Plan. 

The “Comp Plan,” as the insiders call it, is a big, sprawling, long-range planning document that’s supposed to guide development, transportation, housing, and environmental stewardship over the next 20 to 30 years. It is also, ironically, the one document designed to reduce sprawl — a concept we’re told is a moral imperative — while simultaneously being attacked by people who don’t want more density in their neighborhoods. 

You can’t have it both ways. 

After nearly eight years of community engagement, workshops, hearings, and more community engagement (did we mention the engagement?), the updated Comp Plan is finally making its way through local government. That hasn’t stopped the familiar chorus of NIMBYs — many of them from affluent, leafy neighborhoods — from waving their HOA pitchforks at the prospect of townhomes being built within eyesight of their azaleas. 

Yes, it’s true: some residents who say they want to protect the environment and promote walkability are now clutching their pearls at the idea of slightly taller buildings or mixed-use zoning. This is what we call Lexus Liberalism — progressive in theory, allergic to reality when it moves in next door. 

But let’s be clear: this plan isn’t about paving paradise or tossing zoning to the wolves. It’s about making the rules clearer, more flexible, and frankly more modern. The old Comp Plan was a bloated, bureaucratic behemoth — so dense and arcane that it required a Rosetta Stone just to navigate a permit application. The new version shifts some of that micromanagement to the land development code, and yes, to elected officials. That’s called local control, folks. 

More importantly, this isn’t just about Midtown homeowners feeling inconvenienced. It’s about neighborhoods south of Orange Avenue — poorer, often ignored, and primarily minority — where this plan could finally unlock real, needed development. Reducing red tape doesn’t just benefit builders; it creates opportunity in places where infill development has been virtually impossible under the old system. 

And let’s talk about housing. Tallahassee has an affordability crisis. The only way to solve it is to build more units — across the income spectrum. This plan encourages exactly that, using density and mixed-use policies to make housing more available and, over time, more affordable. Commissioner Christian Caban even voted against the weakened version of the plan because it didn’t go far enough to reduce regulation and boost supply. Good for him. 

So yes, the process was long. Yes, the hearings were held. And yes, some neighbors are grumpy. But this Comp Plan is a win for affordability, equity, and common sense. The fact that it makes people on both extremes a little uncomfortable? That’s not a flaw — it’s a sign it’s probably right. 

It’s time we stopped letting the loudest voices — the ones with the most to lose from even the slightest change — hold the rest of the city hostage. This plan isn’t radical. It’s rational. And more importantly, it’s responsive to years of community input that overwhelmingly said: “We need more housing, better mobility, and a clearer path forward.” 

So to the Commissioners: approve the plan. Tell the NIMBYs that they can’t veto the future. And let’s build a city that works for everyone — not just the ones who already made it in. 

“The Comp Plan.” 

It’s one of the least understood – yet most important – documents in all of local government. 

It’s short for Comprehensive Plan, a state-mandated policy document that outlines goals, objectives, and policies for the physical development of the community over a 20- to 30-year horizon. It addresses land use, housing, transportation, conservation, infrastructure, and public services, and it is used to guide zoning, permitting, and capital improvement decisions. 

That’s a mouthful. 

As County Commissioner Nick Maddox pointed out at the last commission meeting, the fact that the new plan is causing everybody a bit of discomfort is evidence that it’s probably a good mix. The county commission approved the plan 6-1 with Commissioner Christian Caban laudably dissenting (more on that in a moment). 

So, what changed in the Comp Plan? According to experts consulted by Red Tape Florida, the most important change was making it less detailed. Tallahassee-Leon’s Comp plan has been notoriously long, compared to most others in the state. The result of that is a stifling of innovation and anything other than cookie-cutter development. 

The new plan shifts more responsibility to local officials and to the land development code. While this might seem dangerous to those mistrustful of bureaucrats, it actually puts more power in the hands of private property owners who find the comp plan virtually impossible to challenge. 

In recent days, the City of Tallahassee and Leon County have held public hearings on the new comp plan. These hearings marked a significant step in the region’s ongoing efforts to address housing affordability, manage growth, and enhance transportation infrastructure. 

The need for a comp plan is glaring – Tallahassee-Leon is losing investment dollars based on its current onerous restrictions, according to experts consulted by Red Tape Florida. 

The current plan is so detailed and impenetrable that it can lead to unintended consequences. For example, the current Comp plan requires an existing access to a canopy road be used, rather than a new access somewhere else on the property. That sounds good, but there has been at least one instance where an existing dirt road access required more trees to be taken out rather than a place elsewhere on the property where the canopy was less prolific. 

Now, there have been complaints from neighborhood groups falling into two main buckets: we don’t like the impact on our neighborhoods and the process has moved too slowly. 

Red Tape Florida will have more to say on those matters soon, but as a sneak peek, you should know that this process began around 8 years ago. 

A central focus of the plan is to tackle the city’s housing affordability crisis. By revising land use policies to encourage higher-density development and mixed-use zoning, the plan aims to increase the supply of affordable housing units. This approach is particularly crucial in areas experiencing rapid growth, where housing demand has outpaced supply, leading to escalating costs.  

That’s one reason Leon County Commissioner Christian Caban was the lone dissenting vote. He supported the plan advanced by staff, but did not approve of changes made at the county commission meeting that watered it down a bit. “If we’re looking at adding regulations to building homes in Leon County I think that will drive the cost of housing stock up and not do anything to increase the amount of homes with affordable housing,” Caban said. 

The City has not yet voted on the plan as that body lost a quorum at its last meeting due to illness and meeting conflicts. 

Mayor Donna Deegan’s newly unveiled 8-point plan to streamline Jacksonville’s civil plan review and permitting process is a masterclass in modern governance. It not only accelerates development timelines but also fosters transparency, collaboration, and innovation—qualities that many Florida cities, including Tallahassee, would do well to emulate.  

At the heart of Deegan’s initiative is a commitment to efficiency and responsiveness. By transferring the Development Services Division to the Public Works Department, the city has already eliminated bureaucratic silos that often stall progress. The plan’s embrace of digital tools — most notably the JaxEPICS permitting platform — has modernized the review process, reducing permit approval times from 100 days to just 40. This digital-first approach, coupled with the exploration of AI-driven comment analysis and an “Express Lane” for expedited reviews, positions Jacksonville as a forward-thinking city ready to meet the demands of rapid growth.  

Crucially, this transformation wasn’t crafted in a vacuum. Deegan’s administration actively engaged industry stakeholders, including the Northeast Florida Builders Association and the National Association of Industrial and Office Properties, to identify pain points and co-create solutions. This collaborative ethos ensures that reforms are grounded in real-world needs, fostering a sense of shared ownership and mutual benefit.  

Contrast this with Tallahassee’s development review process, which, despite some digital advancements, remains encumbered by complexity and delays. Developers in the capital city must navigate a labyrinth of approvals — from Land Use Compliance Certificates to concurrency applications and Natural Features Inventories — often resulting in protracted timelines and increased costs. A 2017 study by the DeVoe Moore Center highlighted these inefficiencies, noting that the average wait time for permits imposed significant opportunity costs on entrepreneurs.  

While Tallahassee has introduced electronic plan reviews and concurrent processing to streamline operations, these measures fall short of the comprehensive overhaul seen in Jacksonville. The absence of integrated platforms like JaxEPICS and limited stakeholder engagement means that systemic issues persist, hindering the city’s ability to attract and retain development projects.  

Jacksonville’s approach demonstrates that meaningful reform requires more than incremental changes; it demands visionary leadership, strategic investment in technology, and genuine collaboration with the private sector. By prioritizing these elements, Jacksonville has not only improved its permitting process but also signaled to businesses and residents alike that it is open for growth and innovation. 

For Tallahassee and other Florida cities grappling with development challenges, Jacksonville’s model offers a clear roadmap. Embracing digital transformation, breaking down bureaucratic barriers, and fostering public-private partnerships are not just best practices —t hey are imperatives for cities seeking to thrive in a competitive landscape. 

In an era where time is money and efficiency is paramount, Jacksonville has set a new standard for municipal excellence. It’s time for others to follow suit. 

Tallahassee’s latest brainstorm? A proposed moratorium on new gas stations through the end of 2025. Because nothing says “forward-thinking governance” like halting business development in response to a single neighborhood’s discontent. This move, sparked by the Circle K controversy in the Canopy neighborhood, is less about urban planning and more about appeasing a vocal minority. 

Let’s be clear: new gas stations don’t sprout up because developers have a fetish for fuel pumps. They emerge in response to market demand. If there’s a need for more fueling options, businesses step in to meet it. It’s called capitalism — a system that, until recently, Tallahassee seemed to participate in. 

But now, the city is considering a blanket freeze on gas station development. Why? Because a group of homeowners in a single neighborhood didn’t want a Circle K nearby. Never mind that the proposed station met all zoning requirements and had been in the works for months. The city’s response? Threaten eminent domain, then pivot to a citywide moratorium. Talk about overkill. 

This isn’t just about gas stations. It’s about a troubling precedent: local government inserting itself into the free market, deciding which businesses are acceptable based on the whims of a few. Today it’s gas stations; tomorrow, will it be fast-food restaurants? Coffee shops? Where does it end? 

Moreover, this knee-jerk reaction undermines the city’s credibility. If businesses can’t trust that approved projects will proceed without political interference, why invest in Tallahassee at all? The message is clear: your investment is only as secure as the city’s latest PR crisis. 

Let’s also not kid ourselves about the so-called “evaluation period.” This isn’t some impartial study session. It’s a year-and-a-half timeout, cooked up under the guise of “planning,” when in reality, it’s a panic-driven overcorrection to a neighborhood spat. If Tallahassee genuinely cared about thoughtful zoning reform, it would follow its own existing planning processes — not slam the brakes on an entire sector of the economy while it figures out what it might want to do. 

And for those who think this is a visionary move, let’s look at other cities that have tried something similar. In Petaluma, California, outright bans ignited lawsuits and raised concerns about fuel access in lower-income neighborhoods. If Tallahassee wants to add itself to the list of overregulated cities that kill investment through regulatory whiplash, it’s well on its way. 

In the end, this moratorium isn’t about thoughtful urban planning or environmental stewardship. It’s about optics and short-term appeasement. And it’s a disservice to the principles of free enterprise and the long-term economic health of Tallahassee. 

For a city that prides itself on progress, this feels like a step backward. 

In the wake of a number of Red Tape Florida reports on the flailing Tallahassee airport, local government officials are rolling out a plan to throw money at airlines in hopes they’ll stay for more than a weekend. In the latest Blueprint agenda item, TLH outlines its strategy to use Minimum Revenue Guarantees (MRGs)—basically taxpayer-backed safety nets for airlines—as a shiny new tool to lure carriers into offering new routes. Of course, they stop just short of calling them “subsidies,” preferring euphemisms like “community-sponsored incentives.” But let’s call a spade a spade: if public dollars are handed to private airlines to offset risk and cover losses, that’s a subsidy in everything but the name. 

Right now, TLH says its hands are tied by FAA grant rules that limit airport-sponsored incentives to things like waiving facility fees and tossing in a few marketing dollars. Since other cities are sweetening the pot with off-airport money—courtesy of city halls, tourism boards, chambers of commerce, and anyone else with a public checkbook—TLH wants in on the game. So the solution? A $10 million MRG fund over 15 years, sourced from “economic development resources.” Translation: tax dollars from sources they hope no one scrutinizes too closely. 

That sounds lovely—until you remember this airport has been down this runway before. 

Take AirTran. In the early 2000s, the city threw more than $2 million in revenue guarantees and marketing support at them. The moment the money dried up, so did AirTran’s interest in Tallahassee. Or look at JetBlue, the most recent flame. TLH finally wooed the airline into launching service to Fort Lauderdale in 2024, thanks in part to over $3 million pledged by eager local boosters. But the route was pulled within months. It turns out you can’t bribe people into buying plane tickets they don’t want. 

The math is optimistic. According to TLH’s consultants, a $10 million investment will miraculously return $1.1 billion in economic impact and over 1,100 new jobs. How? Well, that part is fuzzy. The estimates are “based on assumptions” about aircraft size, load factors, airline strategy, and other conveniently unprovable forecasts. But don’t worry—they have charts. 

In practice, MRGs guarantee airlines a minimum revenue threshold. If a flight underperforms, the public makes up the difference. TLH even gives an example: a hypothetical airline flying from TLH to LaGuardia is guaranteed $1.5 million, but if it only makes $1.2 million, the city writes a check for the shortfall. Any leftover MRG funds get “rolled over” to lure in the next suitor. 

There’s a notable bit of revisionist history in how they discuss JetBlue’s now-defunct route to Fort Lauderdale. It flopped due to low performance—but TLH says that, had they had an MRG in place, they could’ve saved it. Or maybe just delayed the inevitable? The silver lining: fares dropped, traffic surged briefly, and they estimate consumers saved $620,000. Of course, JetBlue also bailed, but hey—stats! 

The document tries to spin this all as a win-win. Airlines reduce risk, passengers get lower fares, the city gets “economic impact,” and no one dares say “corporate welfare” out loud. But at its core, this is a bet that taxpayer-funded parachutes will entice airlines to stick around longer than the next quarterly earnings call. Whether that’s smart economic development or just subsidized hope remains to be seen.