Corey Barba Illustration

   So, I've been staying pretty busy and all, with the holiday season upon us, there is plenty of this and that to do. Drawing every chance I get, but mostly writing stuff at the moment. My wife made some tasty cookies tonight, and if I don't stop eating them, I'm going to make a yule log in my pants.  

   Speaking of food and the wife, we were enjoying an impromptu lunch the other day, and it was a sort of free-for-all, you know... what I like to call a "hard-luck supper" where you grab some leftovers and I open a can of ravioli or whatever floats my boat. I like chili as much as the next guy, and saw that we had a can of chili with no beans, and thought- "That's for me." I know Amanda only likes chili on her hot dogs, so it's just me and the chili doing a one-on-one. Here's the thing- she cringes with every spoonful I take. She never actually refers to this product as "chili", and come to think of it, I'm not sure if anyone in her immediate fam do... they call it "hot dog sauce". Anywho, in her eyes, I'm eating a big bowl of something that is supposed to sit in a small quantity upon another food item. A condiment. As far as she's concerned, I may as well be eating a bowl of mustard. Granted, not all chili is created equal, and I have not enjoyed every bowl I have sat and feasted upon, but hey, it's good old American cowboy food. Not liking chili is like not liking horses or puppies. Or only liking puppies in small quantities in the yard, but not a big bowl of them in the house. Or something like that. You get what I'm saying. She hates hamburger helper as well, but admits it's just a matter of preference. With the chili thing, she just says I'm wrong. Mr. Barba has gotten into the hot dog sauce.

"Clover the Overcomer"  Because magic and sweetness trumps snakey no-goodness dang near everytime. In popular fiction.

   At the end of the year here, it will be my birthday. Seems like I just had one, and now another one is trying to bust down my door with proverbial balloons and cake in hand. I've come to grips with the thinning of my hair and how my gut makes a good resting place for my dinner plate when a favorite TV show is on. The passage of time has ceased to be sad or tragic, and now just seems hilarious. I will say however, that my 13-year-old daughter and I are closing the gap of musical taste between us. I always hate when dads try to be "cool", but I'm not going to dumb down my taste in music to be boring for her sake. Besides, it's not like I'm wearing leather pants.