Photographing last week's Republican National Convention in Tampa was draining. I became so deprived of sleep that I found myself cutting in front of TV cameras, stepping on people's toes, not moving aside right away when asked, and getting lost in hallways.
The photo above depicts the grand finale.
On the day after the event, I woke up early with one hour of sleep. In nearby Lakeland I photographed a presidential campaign rally featuring Mitt Romney and Paul Ryan. In my stupor of exhaustion, I got careless and leaned a monopod with a camera and lens against a fold up chair. Moments later, a media person grabbed the chair. My photo equipment crashed down on asphalt.
I started to cuss the person out then stopped in mid sentence, realizing it was an accident. My anger should have been directed at myself. Placing camera gear in a precarious spot was inviting disaster. The repair bill will cost me hundreds of dollars.
On the next night I slept for ten hours.
It's been years, if not decades, since I uttered a profanity at someone. Why the outburst?
Someone once told me about a wife who was always clean with her language. In her
later years she became afflicted with Alzheimer's disease. To her husband's shock, she began
cussing a blue streak.
I wonder if there's a beast of profanity lurking within us. We do our best to keep this creature
locked in, but every now and then it escapes.
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