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Letters from The Nude Lake: (and other Historic Monuments)

by David R. Ambos

306 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #00-0226; ISBN 1-55212-560-2; US$25.50, C$30.55, EUR21.00, £15.00

Humorous and often earthy recollections of a transplanted New Englander's life and loves in the City of San Francisco.

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about the book      about the author      Table of Contents and excerpt      catalogue info

About the Book Letters from the Nude Lake is a humorous and often earthy chronicle of a transplanted New Englander's life and loves in the City of San Francisco. The author was raised in a small New England town and, after finishing college, migrated to San Francisco in search of fame and fortune. Always one to look before he leaped, he spent the next several years checking his options by ambling from one part-time job to another, in each case sampling and savoring the diverse cultures of the Bay Area. In the early nineties David studied for and received certification as a Registered Nurse and a year later married his nursing school lab partner. A canny observer of the rich broth of life in San Francisco, David made a practice of recording his observations and comments in letters to his sister, brother, and parents - a sampling of which make up this book.

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About the Author The author grew up in a small New England town and, after finishing college, immigrated to San Francisco in search of fame and fortune. Always one to look before he leaped, he spent the next several years checking his options by ambling from one part-time job to another, in each case sampling and savoring the diverse cultures of the Bay Area. In the early nineties David studied for and received certification as a Registered Nurse and a year later married his nursing school lab partner. A canny and humorous observer of the rich broth of life in San Francisco, David made a practice of recording his observations and comments in letters to his sister, brother, and parents - a sampling of which make up this book. Until his death of pancreatic cancer at age 39, David lived in the Bay Area with his wife, her daughter, and two cats.

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Table of Contents and Excerpt

Table of Contents

Chapter 1 - The Boards
Chapter 2 - By Ferry to the Taj Mahal
Chapter 3 - Steven Seagal, Rodney King, and Me
Chapter 4 - Singing Waiters and Sinking Lifeguards
Chapter 5 - Who Mourns for Chekov?
Chapter 6 - A Bridgewalk Too Far
Chapter 7 - Loma Prieta is Spanish for "I Thought You Brought the Beer, Bro"
Chapter 8 - A Christmas Card
Chapter 9 - Ambulances and Tea Gardens
Chapter 10 - The Rachmaninoff Rap
Chapter 11 - The Great Oakland Fire Thanksgiving
Chapter 12 - Let Me Not To the Marriage of True Minds Admit Farm Implements, Part 1
Chapter 13 - Let Me Not To the Marriage of True Minds Admit Farm Implements, Part 2
Chapter 14 - The Bullet
Chapter 15 - Fourth and Long with His Holiness, Pope John Paul II
Chapter 16 - O.J., Jesus, and Me
Chapter 17 - The World-Famous Upside Down Christmas Tree
Chapter 18 - Jello Biafra Frees the Horses
Chapter 19 - Big Bill and the Heineken Remover
Chapter 20 - Code Grey
Chapter 21 - Four Roses for Edsel Ford Fong
Chapter 22 - The Nude Lake And Other Historic Monuments
Chapter 23 - Final Journal

Excerpt

Of course, my permanent neighbors, through the other wall, were no prizes either, an older, alcoholic couple whose hobby apparently consisted of trooping down to Goodwill to shop for used china, glassware, and bric-a-brac to heave at each other on weekend evenings. Never saw much of her, but I could rely on running into him on a pretty consistent basis. Coming home from class late at night I'd regularly bump into him pissing in the hall in front of his room. An awkward moment, socially. "Evening, Biff," I'd say, "Pissing in the hall again, I see." Sometimes I'd try and pull a Dad, whispering, "You know, old man: This pissing in the hall. It's just not done, old man." "Hey, man, when ya gotta go, ya gotta go." "Yes, but ... Biff. There is a toilet right down the hall." "It's full, man."

"I see. Yes. Well, toodles. I must dash," I would say, this last through gritted teeth and clenched nostrils against the rising urine fumes. "Hey, hey, don't rush off, man," he'd say, hurriedly and somewhat slipshodly zipping up and laying a clammy hand across my shoulder, "C'mon in and have a quick belt with me." He was always trying to cajole me into have a quick belt with him so he could regale me, for the zillionth time, with the tale of How He Turned Out This Way. Seems once he'd been a fresh young kid, full of juice, spunk, and promise - and then he got drafted and sent to 'Nam. Then one day, while on patrol in the jungle, he was just patrolling along when they stumbled into a Vietcong ambush, and he saw guy in front of him - his best friend - get his head blown clean off. You know, you talk to enough of these 'Nam Vets and it almost seems like this experience of watching one's best friend get his head blown clean off is something approaching a Universal Experience. It seems kinda suspicious: Like all those ex-hippies who say they were at Woodstock, or all those people who claim to have been at Fenway when Fisk hit that home run in Game 6.

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Catalogue Information

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