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Enver Hoxha
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Gestures are not meaningless. After the death of Albania's iron-fisted dictator Enver Hoxha in 1985, so many people showed up to stomp, dance, and cheer on the grave that the government had to move his body to a private cemetery. The death of Margaret Thatcher in 2013 led to impromptu "grave-dancing" street parties in working-class cities like Glasgow and Brixton. Everyone feared Stalin and hated him for it. When his body got moved from the Red Square Mausoleum in 1961 to a modest gravesite beside the Kremlin wall, rumor had it that several high-ranking party officials who had survived his various purges held a kind of Russian kegger at the new dig: "They drank, cheered, and physically stamped on the dirt above him."
Poet Diane Wakoski wrote "Dancing on the Grave of a Son of a Bitch" in 1972 because there was a sonovabitch, the "Motorcycle Betrayer" Wakoski called him, who needed exorcism from her life. The poem is a kind of ritual chant, the sort you might intone to ward off evil.
Dancing, even on a grave, is not just about revenge. It's about joy, too. Relief. The only time I ever went outside a watering hole to dance smack-dab in the middle of the street was on a late night when my candidate at the time won the White House. (Ring those bells while you can, because by tomorrow you'll hate everyone. Dreams always decay.)
So let's have a party when it happens. Let's dance and whirl and cavort. We'll invite those five Indiana state senators who got defeated in their primaries after they were targeted as disloyal because they didn't want to redistrict Indiana. We'll invite Thomas Massie of Kentucky. I hear he's a smart fellow and doesn't pull his punches. Maybe we should make Brad Raffensperger, who didn't get to be governor of Georgia because of 11,780 votes, our toastmaster for the evening. And certainly Bill Cassidy and John Cornyn ought to want to be there. We'll certainly invite them. E. Jean Carroll too. And a host of others. Maybe the new occupants of the White House would let us rent the ballroom.








