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NOH8

April 2011

S M T W T F S
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my (our) books

Fool for Love When You Don't See Me

Someone Like You I'm Your Man

He's The One It Had To Be You

The Mammoth Book of New Gay Erotica Best Gay Erotica 2007

Best Gay Love Stories: New York City Best Gay Love Stories 2005

Three Fortunes In One Cookie The Deal

contact

If you have any of the above books and would like them signed, mail them to:

P.O. Box 131845, Houston, TX., 77219.

Please include three dollars for return postage.

Send email to timothyjlambert@gmail.com


Warning: This blog may contain homosexuals which in the states of California and Maine have been alleged to destroy the sanctity of marriage. Read at your own risk.



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recommended courses of action


Scout's Honor Rescue is an all-breed, no-kill, Not-For-Profit 501(c)(3) animal rescue organization committed to bringing courage, character and compassion to Houston's homeless pet population and making a positive difference in the lives of these stray and abandoned animals and the Houston community as a whole. 100% of every dollar donated goes directly to saving the life of a homeless animal.

Scouts Honor Rescue Inc.

locally known

join(RED)

maine AIDS alliance

global AIDS alliance

UNAids

AIDS foundation houston

bering omega community services

frannie peabody center


Timothy's hair by Larry Henderson Hair Design.


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On Monday of last week I woke up feeling fine, but by mid-afternoon I was suddenly plagued by a pain in the left side of my back. When I'm exceptionally tired or stressed I get knots in my back, almost always around my shoulder blades. That's where this pain was, so I didn't think much of it. However, after a few hours, it became increasingly acute and made breathing difficult. I plugged in a heating pad, placed it on the floor and tried to lay on it--a remedy that usually helps--but when I lay on my back I felt as though a sword went through me and I nearly passed out. I immediately put on clean underpants, brushed my teeth, and shuffled to Becky's house, begging her to take me to the emergency room for uninsured degenerates such as myself.

I checked in at the emergency desk and then took a seat in the crowded waiting room. While I was hunched over the back of my chair, hanging on for dear life and trying to remember how to breathe, a woman turned to me and said, "I love your hair. Is that Manic Panic?"

"Yeah," I wheezed. "After Midnight Blue."

"Do you have to bleach it white first, and then apply the color?"

"Exactly."

After a while I was called to the desk again so they could read my vital signs and ask me why I was there. I explained what I was feeling as best as I could. A nurse who was listening to my lungs with a stethoscope looked very perplexed when she said to her cohorts, "I don't hear any air movement at all on the left side."

Suddenly I was pushed into a wheelchair and whisked into an operating room that looked somewhat Frankensteinesque. It reminded me of the ubiquitous 70's basement rec room, only this one had an operating table. For a second I imagined them strapping me onto the table, raising me through the roof, and harnessing lightning to get my lung working again. While a doctor asked me a barrage of questions doors opened and hordes of people dressed in blue scrubs suddenly filed into the room. They circled around me, taking turns listening to my barely functioning lungs, reading my blood pressure, and other minor tasks. The room got very crowded. I'd gone from a solitary life and straight into pre-med student nurse hell.

"...spontaneous pneumothorax. What we'll have to do is cut into your left side, spread your ribs, and insert a tube to remove the air causing your lungs to collapse--"

"Wait. What?" I said. I was still holding on to the belief that I had a bad muscle spasm. I was hoping for a less invasive solution, like a muscle relaxant. Maybe some mouth to mouth. (The doctor was kind of cute, after all.) I heard the phrase minor surgical procedure and cringed. Easy for him to say. I'm a big pussy. I can barely stand to floss my teeth.

"...bit of morphine and a topical numbing agent around the area, and then--"

"Wait. What?" They weren't going to knock me out? "Won't this hurt?"

"Well...yeah..." I must've turned a whiter shade of pale, because the doctor added, "I won't lie to you; it'll be a dull pain. Discomforting. But nothing horrible."

"Great," I moaned.

Meanwhile, in student nurse hell, blood was being drawn from my arm in a sort of relay fashion. I almost expected the nurses to shout "Go!" when their vial was filled and they handed off the spigot to the next person. Another nurse came in with forms and started asking me the same questions the doctor had asked earlier. I inadvertently lied about my age and weight, gave my correct date of birth (Let them do the math.), my address, an estimate of how much I smoke ("Only when I breathe."), and on and on, until it was time to operate.

When the morphine hit my system (I assume it was morphine. Could've been something else.), I felt nauseated, so I immediately went into self-distraction mode and started chattering nervously, making snarky comments, telling jokes, and being a general smartass. I didn't feel the incisions at all, but getting the tube in took a lot of effort on the doctor's part. It felt like he was using all of his might to fit a square peg in a round hole in my side. If I remember correctly, I suddenly channeled our character Kieran in Three Fortunes and said something like, "Jaysus Feckin' Christ! Have ya struck oil in there yet, doctor?" That got a lot of laughs. I apologized for swearing, but they insisted I curse a blue streak if it would me feel better and help me through the procedure. I said, "Great. Thanks. Can I smoke, too? Maybe have a martini?" More laughs. More twisting to get the tube in. More cursing. I suggested someone run to the pharmacy to get some KY. When the doctor finally announced that the tube was in, I said, "Fuck. I forgot to ask you to use a condom. Next time, buy me dinner first. Okay, big guy?" When I was sewn up and deemed finished I asked if I was bionic now.

Before the operation, I'd asked them to tell Becky what was going on, because I knew she was probably freaking out in the waiting room and wondering why I was gone for so long. When they were done with me, someone remembered that I'd asked for my friend and a nurse volunteered to go find "Peggy?"

"No, Becky," I slurred, doing my best to enunciate the first letter and only succeeding in spitting on the back of a student nurse's head while he listened to my chest. He didn't seem to notice, so I didn't say anything. Another of the student nurses told me I was doing great and that my hair looked awesome. Moments later someone asked if it was okay if Becky came in and I said, "Suuuuuuuuuure!" I was over-dosing on human contact and it seemed as though the cast and crew of a Felini movie had been in there, so what's one more? Now that I think about it, they probably weren't asking me. I guess I'd just assumed it was MY operating room now and everyone was there for me, to do my bidding. However, in true Gemini fashion, once Becky was by my side I turned on a dime and relinquished my "I'm in control" act. Suddenly I was a whimpering, crying mess, and grateful that Becky stuck by my side until I was admitted to a room.

The moral of the story: Morphine rules.

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