My name is Dave Bry. I'm a 46-year-old writer. I live in Brooklyn with my wife and kid. And, 27 years ago the Connecticut College housing officer assigned me a room to share with Sean Spicer.
Back in 1989, I knew my roommate to be a friendly, wise-cracking Falstaffian character. A bit of a tool, maybe. But weren't we all at that age?
"Remember the name Sean Spicer,” he shouted, standing on his bed, tossing cans of Busch beer. “Vote for Sean Spicer! Class President!"
He never smoked pot. "I'd love to, guys," he'd say, "but I'm gonna run for President someday, and I can't risk having that on my record."
We didn't hang out a lot. He joined the sailing team. I was a philosophy major, and I did choose to smoke pot. But, for our four years together at Conn- or, the first four of my six- we were always happy to see each other. We'd wave hello on campus; have a beer together at a party.
I moved to New York and became a hip-hop journalist. Sean moved to Washington, DC and worked for Congressmen. Years passed.
And then Donald Trump became President. And then Sean Spicer became his Press Secretary. And then he lied to me on TV.