I was sent to the western suburbs of Minneapolis today, by a magazine out of New York, to photograph a 30-year-old Democratic candidate for the US House of Representatives.
I arrived at his local Polling Station at 6:30 AM to watch him vote. And to get some pictures for the story: a piece about Iraq War vets running for political office.

It was a quiet morning, with a long line snaking out the elementary school door, before the polls had even opened. As the sky began to brighten, the line started to move, and the lady in charge came out screaming. Said she was going to have me arrested if I photographed anyone or anything.
Part of me wanted to argue with her. As an American citizen, my right to photograph news events in a public setting is guaranteed by the US Constitution. Read the Bill of Rights, for crying eye. But I wasn't looking for a fight. All I wanted at that moment was a little more coffee. And my basic
human rights.
For the rest of the day, I followed the candidate from location to location, watching him glad-hand half the electorate, always at least 100 feet from the entrance to a polling place. But almost every time, either the cops or the lunch ladies chased us out of there. Before long we had an armada of frat boys tailing our cars, following our every move, waving their signs for the other guy.
It got so ugly that my candidate eventually ditched everyone, including me. So I drove back into the city and met my family outside my local polling place. I still had my camera around my neck as I walked inside, holding hands with my seven-year-old daughter. I was amazed at how comfortable my local voting station felt, after being hounded by the conservative suburban authorities all day.
I felt so relaxed, in fact, that I made a few snaps while voting... just a couple shots of my daughter, and the surroundings. For posterity - you know, the whole 'hanging chads' thing. But I got in trouble there too. A volunteer chased my daughter and I down the hallway, wanting to know WHY I was photographing. And WHAT was I photographing?
She went so far as to demand my name and phone number, just in case... (just in case she decides to throw a brick through my window?) I was starting to get a headache: Let the election hangover begin.
I sat down to a plate of turkey meatloaf with my family, pounded some Tension Tamer tea, and drove back to the suburbs, for a rendezvous with the candidate at his parents' home. I set up my lights in their living room, to shoot a quick portrait after the polls closed.

It struck me as unique, and wonderful, to be inside the parents' home of a politician on election night; waiting for him to come home; to see his face as he came through the door, exhausted from two years campaigning, and to photograph him, at that moment, before he has a chance to sit down and start watching election returns.
Afterward, I hit the election-night party at the local American Legion post. I had every intention of photographing the candidate on stage, accepting his new seat in the US Congress. But it didn't happen. He lost.