Bryan Tipton

Before me, I held a list of short story magazine publishers, and I spent tonight researching them, trying to find a welcome home for my unpublished short story, Naive Ants. Going through their websites, it can be difficult to ascertain differences between them, or those that are receptive to the type of story I wrote. Sometimes, it's the funniest thing that makes me write one address on my submission envelope over another. In the case of the Denver Quarterly, I went to their website and saw on the cover of their last published issue, a painting by Philip Pearlstein, one of my favorite artists. That's all it took. I placed my short story into the envelope and affixed the Denver Quarterly address stamp onto the front. Tomorrow morning I'll mail it off with best wishes.

This afternoon I visited the Star of India restaurant for their lunch-time buffet. I followed this with a desperately needed walk along the beach. The wind blew strongly, and unusually, from the East. Feeling adventurous, I got into the car, drove across the Coronado Bridge, and headed down the isthmus to reach Imperial Beach for my first visit. Imperial Beach sits on the edge of the United States/Mexico border. Across a narrow marsh, Tijuana hovers restlessly. The invisible border is observed due to the continous cycling of military helicopters that rotate along a set path. Three are continuously in the air and make a set loop, and with orchestrated symmetry, when one lands, another rises. IB is an interesting beach. It lacks charisma and personality, but you give it credit for effort. You want to root for it. Cheer it on. It's trying.