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April 2011


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


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.


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


maine AIDS alliance

global AIDS alliance


AIDS foundation houston

bering omega community services

frannie peabody center

Timothy's hair by Larry Henderson Hair Design.

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being boring

A package arrived a couple of days ago, addressed to me, sent by me. It was my youth in a box, filled with photographs, letters, yearbooks, books, drawings, notebooks, notes passed in class written by high school friends, and other mementos, salvaged from my parent's attic, all buried beneath a protective layer of dirty clothes that I'd worn while I was visiting my parents in Maine. (Which reminds me, now that the dryer has been fixed, I need to wash my dirty laundry today.) I spent the weekend sorting through everything in the box, deciding what to keep and what to throw away, reading every letter and note, staring at old photos and wondering what I was thinking when I dressed for school in the late 1980s. The best part of wallowing in yesterday was my old notebooks, filled with writing; half-finished letters never sent, short stories, random story ideas jotted down, character sketches based on people I'd seen, and many terrible teenage-angst poems that should never been seen by anyone. (I immediately disposed of the poems. To even refer to them as poetry is an insult to poets everywhere.) I had no idea I'd ever written any of it. None of it's any good, but it's interesting to see that writing has always been something I've done, even if I didn't know it at the time. When I think about Timothy the teen I remember someone who felt out of place, damaged, and somewhat misguided. Writing was probably an unconscious attempt to ground myself and sort out everything that was flying around in my head at that time in my life. Or, maybe it was something I did to fill the hours of boredom spent in my room. But now that I look at the photographs from that time, I don't see a person who was as boring as he thought he was. I don't see all the insecurity and fear I spent so much useless time worrying about and trying to hide from everyone. Now I see that the path from there to here didn't have quite so many twists and turns as I thought it did.