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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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I barely slept last night/this morning. Not because of nervous Ike anticipation, but because when I let Rex out for his five AM visit to the south lawn--aka the chance to pee before Timothy passes out until noon--I saw a dog running down the street at a frantic pace. That's the last thing I need to see before a hurricane. After shutting Rex down for the night, I told Becky about the wandering dog and she said she'd go with me to try to find it. I grabbed a couple leashes, some bread to use as bait, and we covered every street around our house, trying to find him, to no avail. Eventually, we told ourselves that he'd gone home, or that someone else found him and took him in for the weekend. I hope that's true. But, I couldn't help worrying about him and other dogs that might be running through the streets of the city while Ike passes by.

I also lay awake thinking about hurricanes of yore, trying to recall if I'd ever been in a hurricane before. Of course I remember Rita three years ago, but that mostly passed adjacent to Houston. Then I remembered a hurricane that passed through Maine. Hard to believe, I'm sure, but it has been known to happen. It was the mid 80s and we'd dismantled half of the original early 1900s dilapidated ell on the Lambert Homestead in Maine and were preparing to construct a new two story addition in its place, which would eventually join a new garage. The remaining half of the original ell, which had been renovated and was in good condition, housed our dining room and kitchen on the main floor and my brother's and my bedrooms on the second. A foundation had been dug, but not poured, leaving a vast crater beneath the back half of our house, exposing our canned goods, bags of potatoes, and the rest of our basement to the world. Because part of the original foundation was removed for this endeavor, the back of our house was propped up on stilts. (Music cue: impending danger theme.)

Then the winds came. Of course it was the dead of night. Don't these things always happen during the middle of the night? The power went out around bedtime, but we were prepared for that, because my mother, an avid collector of early-American antiques, had several glass lamps readily filled with oil, wicks trimmed and burning. We crept to our rooms with lanterns in hand, as if we were a family in Little House on the Prairie, listening to the wind howl outside and the creaking of old wooden joints within the walls as they woke from a long rest, ready to fulfill their duty and keep our home standing for another century. At least, that's what we hoped.

I remember turning down the wick of my lamp until the flame died before I rested my head on my pillow. I tried not to think about the other side of the wall next to my bed, the exterior wall now devoid of siding, and the gaping pit beneath me. Unlike the Ingalls' and other families in Walnut Creek, I had a Walkman, and since I couldn't sleep, I slipped on my headphones and listened to WBLM (with Mark Persky in the morning!). In between bouts of classic rock there were report of wind gusts up to 60 and 70 miles per hour. Our house's vibrating timber did it's best, but it was Led Zeppelin that eventually rocked me to sleep that night.

The stilts holding up the back of our house did their job, as did the hundred year old carpentry within the walls. I think we were without power for a week afterward. It was 1985, but it felt like 1885 at the Lambert Homestead. A new daily chore was to ride with my father in his truck to a creek deep in the woods of our property to fill buckets with water for our toilet tank. We played board games by lamp light at night. I read a lot of books. We ate a lot of corn, because our corn crop was spread across the land. Eventually, I had to stop listening to my Walkman's radio, because the hurricane that had passed through Maine was named hurricane Gloria, which meant the stations were relentlessly playing "Gloria" by Laura Brannigan. No wonder I repressed these memories until now.