Reporter's Note: President Obama doesn't always seem to be getting enough sleep, which I suppose makes sense. I worry about the house catching on fire or a burglar breaking in, he has to worry about the Iranians blowing something up. Well, we all have our burdens, don’t we?
Tom Foreman | BIO
Dear Mr. President,
As you probably noticed, it's a rainy morning here. I listened to the clouds settling in all night. Cold, wet, fall rain, pushing the leaves down into the streets, leaving them flat and sodden; not at all crisp and rustly, the way autumn leaves are supposed to be.
Maybe that explains my particularly unusual dreams. Among other things (and I am absolutely not joking,) I dreamed about studying a map of the Caucasus region; arguing with Bruce Springsteen in a deserted parking lot before he drove off in a huff, and looking around some old, beat up, empty racquetball courts with my wife. Probably that Springsteen thing jumps out at you, but not for me. I have had dozens of celebrities make cameos in my dreams over the years, and not necessarily celebs that I have actually met. I have ridden a bus with Michael Jackson over an island covered with seals. I've played guitar with Larraine Newman. And I seem to recall John Candy appearing quite lively in dreamland once long after he had passed away.
You, on the other hand, have never shown up. Where have you been? You certainly seem to be getting all around the country during the days, seems like you could make at least an imaginary visit in my unconscious hours. Kind of like the imaginary phone calls I keep getting from you. Ahem. (Seriously, call me. It won't take that long, and trust me, you'll find it worthwhile. I'm a good person to talk with.)
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