THE DUMP: APRIL 4, 2025
Originally posted April 4, 2025
Budgets, Boots & Bad Ideas
This week in Williamson County: the caucuses collapsed, the microphones cut out, and Rep. Andy Ogles tried to invoice the void for “services rendered.”
In Nashville, a Senate hearing turned into a one-man roast of Williamson County GOP Chair, who arrived full of righteous indignation and left with a verbal bootprint courtesy of Sen. Todd Gardenhire.
Franklin’s BOMA greenlit a mall makeover so massive, you can practically hear Cool Springs traffic grinding to a fresh new snarl. And Brentwood? Held a forum so subdued it made CSPAN look like WrestleMania.
Meanwhile, Williamson County Schools is slapping together a budget with Elmer's glue, deferred maintenance, and whatever optimism didn’t quit mid-semester.
Breathe in. Lower expectations. Let’s dump it out.
FEC You Later: Ogles Blames Software, Shrugs in Cowboy Boots
NewsChannel 5 investigative reporter Phil Williams is back on the beat—still taking tips from caffeinated partisans and deep-diving into campaign finance reports with the tenacity of a political bloodhound.
This time? It’s Rep. Andy Ogles. Again.
Ogles’ campaign paid $14,000 to “JL Tech Sales,” a company that... doesn’t seem to exist. First it was in Chattanooga—turns out that address belonged to a plexiglass shop. Then it was in a Virginia town where the guy running the place said they didn’t sell office supplies. They specialized in “text blasting” and “ringless voicemails.” So yes, Andy paid thousands for spam.
Worse? JL Tech billed the campaign this year for services that never happened. Ogles blamed it on a mysterious “third-party software” that randomly filled in vendors and expenses—like a Mad Libs for campaign fraud, only with fewer nouns and more subpoenas.
Other FEC gems:
• $2,000 via Venmo for “consulting.” Because nothing says airtight campaign strategy like paying your guru on the same app you use to split nachos and lose bar bets.
• $11,000 to a call center for “food and beverage.” Presumably to wine and dine the AI before it cold-calls your grandma.
• $1,000 to something called “Strategic Advanscale” at a D.C. UPS store. Sounds fake. Is fake.
• A handful of payments to folks like “Smith, John” and “Erikson, Stein”—all at the same address. Mission: Implausible.
Let’s not forget—this is the same guy who swore he loaned his campaign $320,000, only to later admit… yeah, about that—never mind.
The FBI is now investigating, presumably while doing their best not to make eye contact with the boots. Yes, those boots—because Ogles wears cowboy boots with suits. Which, while not technically a crime, really ought to trigger some kind of fashion-related ethics review.
BUILD THE BOXES: Galleria Gets a Glow-Up, Rodeo Gets a Statue
Franklin BOMA approved a Cool Springs Galleria transformation on March 25: 600 apartments, a hotel, and 1.6 million square feet of new retail. Vote: 7–1. Alderman Patrick Baggett was the lone holdout—possibly the last romantic left in a city full of patios.
Baggett wasn’t buying it. “We’ve got boxes,” he said. “What we need is a vision.” The rest of the board agreed—about having boxes—mostly because boxes are easy to approve, and voting “no” might delay dinner.
The new zoning classification? “Planned District.” Which means: build whatever, as long as it looks like you planned it.
Mallory Lane traffic came up, and someone dared to whisper “roundabout.” Engineers responded like they'd been asked to pave it in gold—turns out it would require relocating utilities, which is bureaucrat-speak for “please sell a kidney first.” So… that idea took the nearest exit.
Meanwhile, BOMA heard a pitch for “Rodeo Park” to honor 75 years of the Franklin Rodeo—with a statue, flags, and more cowboy vibes than a Yellowstone season premiere. It'll sit where the rodeo used to be, proving again that in Franklin, nothing ever dies—it just gets bronze.
Speaking of the rodeo, it’s about a month out, May 15-17. Boots are not just okay here, but encouraged. “NOW GO-OWN, GIT!”
CAUCUS CAUCOPALYPSE: Senate Spanks Closed-Door Nominations
A Senate hearing on SB799 (the bill to end party caucuses in favor of primaries) turned from legislative hearing to scorched-earth seminar thanks to Sen. Todd Gardenhire.
Williamson County GOP Chair Steve Hickey came to defend the sacred right to caucus in high school gyms. Instead, he got publicly body-slammed.
Enter Gardenhire, clearly tired of semantic spin, hit him with: “I’ll interrupt you in a minute if you’ll keep your mouth shut.”
Then: “You’ve defined Republican two or three ways. Pick one.”
And finally: “You’ve confused this whole panel about what a Republican is.”
By that point, even the microphones looked uncomfortable.
Meanwhile, Williamson County Conservatives candidate, Kimberly Calcote calmly demolished the insider logic. She noted Marsha Blackburn herself couldn’t vote in the WCRP caucus and called it “chaotic and disenfranchising.”
Her closer? “This is about giving power to the people—not political insiders.”
Meanwhile, the online meltdown from “the usual corners” was immediate and glorious. A chorus of freedom warriors sobbed into their press releases, demanding ethics complaints, retirement for Gardenhire, and maybe a papal exorcism. One keyboard patriot asked if Gardenhire was “kin to Biden.” Another demanded his arrest. Bold strategy.
But the Senate rolled on. Sen. Jack Johnson, the bill sponsor, wrapped it up: “The answer to crossover voting is not to disenfranchise tens of thousands of Republicans.”
Boom. Mic dropped. Vote passed. Caucus clingers left clutching pearls.
Result: Bill moves forward. Closed-door shenanigans? On notice.
BRENTWOOD: THE FORUM THAT WHISPERED — AND THE ONE THAT WINKED
Brentwood voters got two candidate forums this week. One was democracy—mild, awkward, earnest. The other was a campaign ad in a cardigan, held on April Fool’s Day, which feels almost too on-the-nose.
THE ONE THAT WINKED
On April 1, Preserve Brentwood hosted a 45-minute “forum” that featured just two candidates: Mayor Mark Gorman and Commissioner Allison Spears, who showed up like it was a fireside chat staged just for them—because when the other candidates aren’t invited, it’s easier to stay warm.
The group—definitely not a PAC (pinky swear), despite mailing out campaign endorsements, organizing election-season events, and parroting candidate talking points like a wind-up HOA newsletter—kicked off with a history of C-4 zoning before launching into a pop quiz:
• Are you a member of Williamson Inc? Nope.
• Attended one of their events? Heaven forbid.
• Own property besides your house? Just a humble acre, thanks.
The message was clear: preserve the land, preserve the brand.
Gorman dusted off every line from his original campaign, including the perennial favorite: “All we really have is zoning.” Which, depending on your level of emotional attachment to lot setbacks, is either civic wisdom or a cry for help. (“Brentwood is not broken,” he added, just in case you were thinking of fixing anything.)
Spears repeated her love letter to the status quo, warned of “developers banging on our door,” and cited condos in Davidson County as if they were a biblical plague. She credited herself for the veterans memorial, saving Murray Lane, and discovering a rock wall like she was on an archaeological dig in suburban Tennessee.
Both railed against Williamson Inc. as if it were plotting a high-rise invasion, and both made clear they’d rather eat gravel than support mixed-use development.
Oh—and no questions from the audience. Of course…. OF COURSE!
Bottom line: if Preserve Brentwood isn’t a PAC, then Andy Ogles is an accountant.
THE ONE THAT WHISPERED
On April 2, the League of Women Voters of Williamson County and Bike Walk Brentwood hosted the real deal at the John P. Holt Library. All five candidates showed up. The microphone, tragically, did not.
The forum was civil, sleepy, and barely audible—like listening to a zoning discussion through a tin can across a cul-de-sac. But at least it gave voters a chance to compare ideas, not just rehearse applause lines.
Highlights:
• Density? Not a chance.
• Apartments? Not if you value your property values.
• Direct mayoral elections? Please, this isn’t France. We prefer our mayors appointed quietly, without all that messy democracy.
All five candidates pledged eternal loyalty to the 90/5/5 zoning formula and one-acre lots. Trails are fine—as long as they don’t cross I-65 unless the Almighty funds the bridge Himself.
The lightning rod was Brentwood’s long-stalled indoor rec center—affectionately known as The Pickle Dome. Some candidates support reopening public-private talks. Others think it’s time to patch things up with the county like exes who still share a Costco membership.
And Brentwood’s reserve fund? Sacred. Only to be touched in case of tornado, global collapse, or a full-scale microphone replacement emergency. (Seriously—someone buy the library a functioning microphone.)
Bottom line: If you want sweeping reform, this ain’t your town. But if you’re into civic subtlety with a side of generational land-use pride—early voting starts April 16.
FINAL FLUSH: WCS BUDGET STRIPPED WHILE VOUCHERS FLY FIRST CLASS
Williamson County Schools’ new budget dropped. It reads like a cry for help.
• 34 staff cuts
• $1 million slashed from operations
• Chromebooks for K–2? Cancelled
• Spring Break for non-certified staff? Paid time off… to stay home and cry into their weekly home budgets.
The kicker? We’re running a $12.8 million shortfall. Why? TISA—Tennessee’s “student-centered” funding formula—decided WCS should fund 6.84% of the state’s education costs… even though we teach just 4.2% of the students.
Translation: we’re the piggy bank for everyone else’s problems.
And here’s the real insult:
• Per-student funding for public schools? $4,300
• Voucher for private school students? $7,295
That’s right. The state pays more for your kid to leave public school. Like Tennessee’s saying: “We’ll even cover the Uber. Just go.”
Meanwhile, WCS is duct-taping the hull and bailing water with a lunch tray. They’re offering targeted raises, keeping layoffs at bay, and trying to retain teachers, aides, drivers, cafeteria workers—the people who actually make a school run.
So let’s be honest: we ask teachers to prepare our kids for a future they themselves can’t afford to live in. Bus drivers go missing because they can’t make rent. Cafeteria workers feed our children and then head to a second job just to feed themselves.
Our funding isn’t just failing the system—it’s failing the people in it.
This isn’t budgeting. It’s abandonment with a balance sheet.
The only thing flying first class in Tennessee education right now is that private school voucher—sipping ginger ale with extra legroom while public schools get frisked like fugitives at the gate.
Meanwhile, teachers are lucky to get a sn the cargo hold
And that’s it for this week’s civic soap opera. If you made it this far, congratulations—you’ve officially outlasted a caucus credentialing line and a BOMA debate on traffic calming.
Stay tuned, stay salty, and for the love of all that’s funded, don’t Venmo your campaign “consultant.”
We’ll flush again next Friday.
— Williamson Wrong