The tale of the Urban Pig is a love story. It involves a young man, a 1984 Jeep Cherokee, and a huge lapse of all reason. The original Urban Pig was my car. I bought it used from a dude named Bezhad. I drove it for a few months and it drove me into near bankruptcy, with a few stops at good times along the way. It all started during a snowstorm. My buddy Pat never picked me up. I was cold, and tired, and in a really bad mood. And my feet were wet. I decided I needed my own car. A car with character. A car that got me where I was going, and then -when I got to where I was going - something to talk about. She was a beaut. 1984, silver, torn seats that looked cool, but didn't pinch your ass, and a couple hundred thousand clicks under her fan belt. It was in generally good condition from far, but - like Bill Clinton's marriage during intern season - far from good condition. So, how did it get its name? When I was test driving it, my dad came along for the chug down Warden. He looked over at me, and said, "This thing is a real Urban Pig, eh?" Yeah, I know, a pretty lame story about how it got it's name, but it was, and forever will be, an Urban Pig. Joyrides through construction zones in Hamilton; introducing us to Deliverance, Ohio on the way home from Bowling Green; a 10 hour trip up to the Pig's final resting place - Tim Horton's in Espanola. Even after it was done driving, it wasn't done fightin'. After being towed into Little Current, the mechanic tried to start 'er up the next morning. the Pig blew her top, literally. there was gasoline in the piston, which fired right up through the hood. Damn cool.
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