Tom Foreman | BIO
President Obama has had a relatively rough week. So have I, in my own way, but since I’m not a president, no one really notices. Ah well. At least I have my letters to the White House to keep me warm.
Dear Mr. President,
I am playing chauffeur for a daughter's prom tonight, so I am writing this at a bar on the Georgetown waterfront where I am killing time until I pick the gang up from dinner. I've never really liked bars. I don't drink, and they are generally too noisy for conversation, but I figured this was a reasonable place to grab a meal and read a bit while I waited. I am working through The Sun Also Rises, and a steak that quite possibly came from a bull that chased Hemingway through the streets of Pamplona. I'm no food snob, but this is dreadful. Met a very nice couple from Ohio though, whose daughter just moved to town. That was nice.
Ah well, I suppose I should not complain, not after the week that you’ve had. For so long, at least politically, it seemed like you could do no wrong, but this week it looked like you were dancing the DC Two Step with three left feet.
Don't let it get you down. Everybody has bad streaks, and everyone makes a mistake now and then. That said, I was rather disappointed by the revelations about your failed maneuvers in the Pennsylvania Senate race; you know, having former President Clinton try to prod Joe Sestak out of the race so your pick, Arlen Specter, might win. We all know now that Sestak said no and went on to soundly whip your chosen candidate.
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