Summer Rooftop Party

For me the process of writing, as I'm sure it is for most, is more thinking about doing it -- maybe jotting an occasional note -- than actually sitting down and getting anything done.  For instance this morning  walking to work in a steady moderately-heavy rain, my water-resistant New Balance shoes gradually giving way to wetness, I laughed out loud at the recollection of a summer rooftop party in New York City decades ago.  I laughed not so much at the recollection of the summer rooftop party as I did my friend's impersonation of the coworker at the party who I was drunkenly forcing myself on and making out with.  He acted out her disgusted grimaces and rigid body to the inebriated delight of a group buddies the weekend after the event transpired. I wore the goat horns that night of salon drinking.  Every guy loves a friend whose made a fool out of himself with the ladies. I thought if I can describe what has just happened to me -- cold, wet, walking with an umbrella and a Starbucks travel mug, my black cross trainers starting to leak then suddenly transported to a vision of my friend's contorted face and stuck out tongue and from there to a wavy hot August evening tar-covered rooftop long ago -- I will have done something for the day.