Last night I went to a gender reveal party for senior citizens like myself. Unfortunately, there were no fireworks; just hundreds of burnt-out candles. My old friend Angela Davis was there. She wondered if this was what James Baldwin had in mind by ‘the fire next time,’ but before I could answer, the crook and blather arrived. Chief Donald Trump doused the flames, but Brakeman Bob Woodward fanned them. Then they started shouting at each other as we evacuated the Whitewash House and took refuge in the intestinal by-pass system that the Eisenhower administration designed, in case of a national emergency room. At my age, that may come in handy, especially if I have to mail my sample ballot early, in time for it to be safely and discreetly discarded. It’s times like these that make me glad I’m living in America, where a man can still breathe freely, be it Portbanned, Oregano or in the Twin Miseries, and where no woman ever reveals her age, except when she is having a baby, and is looking for someone to blame for having lit the spark nine months too soon, without using a fire extinguisher (or other form of pest control) to prevent forest firebrands from over-crowding mother earth before she’s even old enough to vote. Anybody got a match?