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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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modern love

The boss lady has been drinking more than usual looking a little bored lately, so I suggested a visit to the Menil to stimulate her gray matter. My idea was well received by everyone at Hanley Inc., which was great, but The Big H didn't seem all that thrilled when I told her about it. Was she trying to thwart my efforts? She wouldn't nap, which made me worried that she'd later throw a tantrum in the middle of a quiet museum. She didn't want a bottle, and we couldn't go anywhere until she had lunch. Nor would she--woah, nelly! I was hoping she'd poop before we left, so I might not have to deal with that out in public, and she delivered. And delivered. And delivered. Nasty! After pooping half her body weight, she was ravenous and downed her bottle in under a minute. Score! She still wouldn't nap, but two out of three wasn't bad. Actually, one out the three was absolutely foul, but enough about the poop.

Hanley didn't nap in the car like I thought she would, but when we arrived at the Menil she was being very sweet and curious about what we were doing. She maintained the good attitude inside, too, and smiled at the person who greeted us when we entered. We visited the surrealists first, because what baby doesn't like surrealism? Hanley, that's who. She was pretty blase about Rene Magritte, which surprised me, but she showed a passing interest in Max Earnst. She did, however, squeal a bit when she saw a photograph by Andre Kertesz, which pleased me, because I have an affection for Kertesz, as he's one of the first photographers I studied.

When we saw the antiquities, Hanley squealed again at the sight of a torso sculpted from Roman marble from the first century. I was looking at it, trying to figure out what it was that excited her about it, when she pointed to my left and said, "Guhnehblehga!" For those who don't speak infant, she was referring to an urn. She oohed and gurgled about several carved figured and other statuary pieces. But it was a gallery of contemporary and pop art that elicited the best response from Hanley. She grinned at a massive piece by Andy Warhol, Lavender Disaster, which unnerved me slightly, as it features multiple images of an electric chair. But she responded similarly to Jasper Johns, which was comforting. Maybe she understood whimsy after all. A grouping of Mark Rothko paintings caused her eyes to widen and then focus intently. She shook her pink slobber rag at them and then shoved it into her mouth, sucking on the fabric as she stared intently at the colors. I understood and liked that reaction.

We stopped in front of Ulysses by Barnett Newman and I said, "This is one of my favorite paintings." Hanley punched me in the mouth and pointed back at Periscope (Hart Crane) by Jasper Johns. "Everybody's an effing critic," I muttered.