Tom Bowers

Sleep is for wussies. In fact, so is sobriety. If you believe that, you should have come along for my drinking journey of Bull Blasters, Cherry Bombs, Budweiser B-to-the-E and "energetic" malt liquors with label descriptors akin to "amped," "charged" and "dude, I'm like totally wiggin' out, man."

No one gets between a "Star Wars" fan and his love for the lightsaber. No one, that is, except for George Lucas.

IT'S STRANGE how often adult collectors of comic books are stereotyped as childish, geeky or – at best – eccentric. In fact, not only is it odd, but in most cases, it's just plain wrong. Sure, back in the day, most superhero comics were cover-to-cover campy fun, written and marketed for an audience of 'tweens. But during the Reagan era, mainstream comic books left "camp" where it belonged – following "summer." Writers, artists and publishers decided to get serious on fans. And pop culture noticed. Lately comics have been as much a part of the Hollywood universe as they are the Marvel and DC universes, banking hundreds of millions of dollars from PG-13 and R-rated movie adaptations.

Driving to the bar on New Year's Eve proves one of two things about a person: Either a) brain cell retention isn't the fool's strong suit, or b) dodging cars in "Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas" lost its luster after the first 100 hours of gameplay. Either way, it's better not to try so hard to prove Darwin right.

SPARE the guilt trip. No one wants to listen to another you-owe-them diatribe about the crime of fortune, the sin of hard-earned comforts. That's a false, sleight-of-hand way to drive people to charity. Poverty is no stranger and less of a surprise – folks avoid its gaze on the walk to work, the fact that it sleeps in the backseat of the car down the street, that it waits with palm upturned on the way out of the mall.

When Dave Mustaine left then-thrash-metal band Panic to join Metallica in 1982, he must have prepared himself for the mercilessness of metal. Because as soon as allegations of drug abuse forced him out of James Hetfield's destined-to-rule musical juggernaut one year later, Mustaine took the setback and turned the metal scene on its ear with the up-yours mentality of a true thrasher.

Beer gets a bad rap during wintertime. "Cold beer? While it's snowing?" people say. "I prefer red wine." Try telling any malted hophead that winter is the time to lay off the ale and you'll likely wind up as a secret ingredient in his next batch of basement brew. Yeah. Those of us for whom the words "bitter," "smoky" and "sprucey" act as Pavlovian devices look forward to flu and cold season for one reason only: It's time for winter ales.

Punk rock hurts. Just ask scar-riddled legend Iggy Pop.