Last weekend I killed a dragon – a couple in fact. It took me about 20 hours to hunt the first one down, and while he put up one heck of a fight, my superior swordmanship did finally prevail. And after the first one, it was cake.

If I were to wake up tomorrow morning and pursue a career in, say, the coffee industry, I’d look back on my life as a journalist with great satisfaction. And this is because I met Kirk Hammett.

Following what may be the best concert Abu Dhabi has seen, starstruck Karl Baz catches up with legendary Metallica lead guitarist Kirk Hammett for tea and a chat.

We are not happy people – we journalists I mean. The job looks like a lot of fun on the outside, but behind the scenes, we’re an angry, caffeine-addicted bunch who live in an alternate reality, and can hardly ever tell what day it is.

There’s a feeling I’ve had in the pit of my stomach that I couldn’t quite place. It was wearing me down, draining my energy, making it difficult to wake up in the morning and wreaking havoc on my otherwise super-sunny disposition.

When tigers roamed free, we kept our distance. We lived in mud huts, lit fires and sharpened sticks, and prayed that the tigers would just leave our miserable little villages alone.

The child at the fence would have ripped out a fence-pole and smacked me upside the head. And while he might not be able do that without some nifty space-time manipulation, my mum has no problem bending the laws of physics, along with my neck.

There are lines you don’t cross with a man, and these are set in stone. Don’t ogle his wife, watch your manners around his mum, and don’t ever, ever (ever) mess with his food.

It reminded me of university, and how older professors wrote the class name in huge block capitals on the blackboard in the beginning of the semester, then read it out loudly, as they shook their heads in quiet torment.

So, three fat women walk into a government office; did that sound like the front end of a bad joke? Let me try again. One tired, miserable writer walks into a government office after two weeks of incompetent officials and hot, hot Beirut sun.

I know he was being helpful, but I’m neither blind nor stupid; what bothered me the most though, is that I’d actually asked for wine, not wipes.

Ask me anytime, and I’ll argue the merits of bachelorhood with the eloquence of Arabian philosophers and the conviction of pack-mules; any time, except around Valentine’s.

A legend in Lebanese theater, the man that inspired and continues to inspire generations of talent, Rafic Ali Ahmad buys me a shisha at the notorious Rawda Cafe and talks about his life.

Armenian rocker Eileen Khatchadourian has managed to blend traditional Armenian rhythms with rock, and more rock. Here's how she did it.

Michel Elefteriades – guerrilla fighter, artist, musician – doesn't consider himself Lebanese, rather, the Emperor of Nowheristan, a state with no land and where everyone is welcome. Provided they pass the test. Where do we sign up?