Yesterday I finally got a copy of Undead on Arrival from Amazon, weeks after my Mum and months after my publicist.

I'm over the euphoria of receiving my author's copies of the book, received around the same time. Now comes the tough part - juggling work on the next book with letting people know about this one, and doing other work that actually pays the bills.

I emailed a bunch of people, telling them I had a new book out. This is always a risky task because some of my acquaintances take exception to being emailed out of the blue, no matter how polite I am about it.

With dashing young director Todd Smith now in charge, the Gibbes Museum of Art is clawing its way into the 21st Century. The place is known for its Charleston Renaissance paintings, but it’s also got abstracts, sculptures, Japonisme, Whistler etchings and God knows what else stored beneath its draughty rafters. Recently, the Gibbes added video art to its collection with Janet Biggs’ Citadel-shot Like Tears in Rain.

I’m torn in twain when I see video art. On the one hand, it’s good to see art expanding its boundaries and making itself accessible to Boob Tubers. But the filmmaker/film critic side of me picks up on the seemingly inevitable flaws in the camerawork, sound, editing and the way the subject is presented.

Biggs’ latest has some nice themes but the videography is less than perfect. She’s done other, slicker stuff in the past. You can hear her talk about her work in an interview she did at the Gibbes. I recorded the chat back in May.

Undead on Arrival has been named book of the Month by publishers Luath Press. It's currently being distributed in Britain - my mum just got a copy from Amazon - and should hit US stores in time for Halloween.


Here's what Luath had to say about the new novel:


Bestselling author Nick Smith's new book, Undead on Arrival, introduces us to the grave new world of zombie 'life'. In a brilliantly funny, incredibly original fantasy world, where zombies must fight for their constitutional rights as citizens of our world, our hero, Glen, is struggling to come to terms with the drawbacks of being a zombie - and desperately trying to find his killer.

The hours suck and the pay ain't much better. But being a filmmaker has its perks. For example, I get to hang out with bands when I'm shooting videos for them.

Last Wednesday I rubbed shoulders with the mighty Black Eyed Susan. They’re playing at Johnsons Pub on Cumblerland St. every Wednesday in September. Every night has a different vibe – last week it was reggae, this week it’s funk/hip-hop with guest MCs, and on the final night they’ll play a variety of styles.

I first met Aaron Levy (keyboards/vocals), Adam Chase (drums/vocals) and Matthew Chase (guitars/vocals) back in May when I filmed their show at The Pour House, James Island. That time I concentrated on the audience rather than the band, so that the musicians could show record execs how much their fans loved them. This time, I’ll be spending more time filming the actual performance.

Black Eyed Susan are good-natured, highly talented pros. They deserve to hook those record companies just like they’ve hooked all their supporters in Charleston.




Matthew rocks out. For more pix, visit my Photobucket page.

I'm pleased to learn that that most holy of endangered species, the great British pint, has been taken off the extinction list.

For 8 years mainland Europe has been trying to enforce a tyrannical metric rule on the people of Britain and Ireland, phasing out imperial measures. It would be illegal to sell a pint of lager - we'd have to order it in litres instead, I suppose.

Thanks to a public outcry, the pint has been saved and the European Union's executive body will let the Brits and the Irish continue to use miles and pints in our everyday lives (e.g. mile measurements on roadsigns).

Sadly, Metric Martyr Steve Thoburn, a grocer who was convicted of breaking the metric law while it was still in effect, is not alive to see the U-turn. He died from a heart attack in 2004, a month after his appeal was rejected by the European Court of Human Rights. (He's now 1.8288 meters under, pushing up daisies.)

Imagine the injustice of a foreign power muscling in on your territory and telling you how to run things "for your own good," making you say, write and buy things their way for the sake of global unity. If it happened here, I think there would be a whole lot of martyrs willing to fight for their pints.

At Summer Camp I taught a couple of kids around 7 years old who had spent some time surfing. One tiny little girl told me that she was a natural. So I figured if the children could do it, why couldn't I? How hard could it be?

Turns out it was very hard for me.

I went to Folly Beach and tried to stay upright on a board for a couple of hours. There were no waves to speak of. Keeping my balance was ridiculously difficult. Watching out for sharks - there have been a few people bitten off the Charleston coast recently - I managed to hang on by wrapping myself around the board and clinging there for dear life.

After much struggling I got into a sitting position and was able to admire the setting sun casting its glow upon the waves. The sea was as warm as bathwater and there were no circling fins. But I wasn't able to stand up on the board on my first day out there.

Surfing's one of those things that look easy when you see other people doing it, and you hope you'll have a natural affinity for it. What the surfers don't mention is the days and weeks of practice they put in before they got good at the sport. The other thing they don't mention is the injuries they receive.

I'd got off my wobbly ride and was leaving the sea when a wave dragged the board straight into my face. There was blood everywhere and my friends left the water (because the blood might attract sharks, not to come check on me). I'd cut my upper lip and bashed up my nose and teeth. Leaving a trail of blood on the beach, I headed for the local Surf Bar, had a beer and bled all over the tables as well.

By then my friends were regaling me with tales of the horrible surfing accidents they'd been in, a litany of torn ligaments, broken bones and sprained groins. If I'd heard them before I tried surfing, I would have thought twice about getting on the board.

The bleeding stopped next morning and my teeth have retained their standard British crookedness. My nose is still numb. Unfortunately for my health and well-being, I'm a stubborn bastard. I'll be back on the water again soon, holding on tight to my board this time (even when I'm done).

Summer Camps

With school back in session and my son Sam starting 2nd Grade, I'm taking a break from teaching classes for a couple of weeks.



I ended up teaching four different Summer School classes, mostly at Creative Spark in Mt. Pleasant. The kids there had a wide range of ages, from shy 6-7 year olds to proudly moody teens. But they pulled together to do a show for their parents at the end of a week of workshops.

Creative Spark also ran a rock camp for up-and-coming musicians. The teenagers in that group were even more moody.

On the other side of town, I shot a short film called The Wild Weasel of West Ashley for a group of enthusiastic, accident-prone children.

...And finally, I went back to Creative Spark to work with younger children (4-5 year olds). Their attention spans were very short, but then so is mine, so we got on just fine.

You can see more pics from the Creative Spark showcase and the movie camp here. You won't see any shots of me looking knackered after teaching the kids - those images have been destroyed. The camps were fun but tough. Must be why summer only comes once a year.