At the stoplight just where you get into Barre, there’s this really well done statue of an Italian granite worker. When high-quality granite was discovered here in the 19th century there weren’t nearly enough skilled laborers in the U.S. to handle the stuff, so lots of immigrants came over from Scotland and Italy . They mined the stuff and shipped it all over the U.S.–if you’ve got a big stone statue or imposing mausoleum near you, there’s about one chance in three that the rock came from this quarry. The town has a rich history of working class struggle, immigrant pride, labor activism, and craftsmanship. I often think about it passing this statue.
Of course I couldn’t enjoy any of that this evening because a loutish sideways-cap-wearin’ degenerate apish meth-addled douchenozzle was angry at the car behind him for some dumbass cracker reason. He hopped out of the beat-up Honda, threw out his chest, flipped the driver the bird, flung a beer can at the car, and generally acted like an adolescent silverback who is afraid he will never be inside a female silverback’s vagina. For all intents and purposes he looked like the guy to the left. In fact, I cannot conclusively prove that the guy in this picture I randomly found on the Internet (I just Googled “wigger”) was not in Barre this evening. It was a nice reminder of why I’m so very, very glad I no longer live in what is now a run-down, skanky, tired old town.