It's 2008. New Year's resolution: first of all, to make some New Year's resolutions. I did mean to, but I haven't gotten around to it. In fact I haven't gotten around to much of anything this year. It's clear that 2008 is waiting for me to make some resolutions before it can formally begin.
OK, here's a modest start:
- Clean my room.
- Start a savings account.
- Don't get in any serious bike accidents.
- Change party affiliation so I can vote in Democratic primary.
Somewhat more ambitious:
- Dental appointment.
- See optometrist.
- Sign up for more math classes.
- Go on one or more camping trips.
Very ambitious:
- Get into graduate school.
- Blog at least once a week.
- Drink less.
- Save enough money to travel to Iceland this summer. Perhaps Rome.
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Monday night, around 11:30, M. and I were walking home from one of our favorite neighborhood restaurants. Just as we turned a corner toward our apartment, we heard gunshots ahead: first a set of three, then six more. They sounded nearby, no more than two blocks from us. So we stopped walking.
"Hmm. I think those are gunshots," I whispered, stating the obvious.
"They're not firecrackers," said M.
"Are there six shots in a round?" I asked. I know almost nothing about guns.
M. is from Wisconsin, so he knows enough. "Nope. Nine," he said. "Maybe we should walk this way instead."
We took a roundabout route back home. Approaching our house from the other side, we watched as a line of police cars raced down Mission Street; and then, just as we reached our front door, a very suspicious-looking car roared down our own street, all its windows rolled down.
"Oh, shit," M. said. "Don't look, don't look." I glanced away, fumbling for my keys.
When we were safely inside, M. wondered whether he should call the cops. "That was probably the guy," he said. "We didn't see much, but we may as well call."
He called. The cops were interested, and called M. back a few times with more questions, but we just didn't have enough information on the car, and it was all circumstantial evidence anyway.
Curious, I looked at the newspaper a few days ago and discovered that it's probably a good thing that we didn't see more than we did:
For the second time in two years, a San Francisco prosecution witness who strayed from witness protection has been killed in the city, authorities said Wednesday.
It occurred to me, moreover, that if we had chosen to walk on Mission Street back home--as we do about half the time--we probably would have become witnesses ourselves. Gulp.
