LONGEST DAY OF THE YEAR.

WE'VE GOT HOT SESSIONS WITH MCA, and I'm not talking about Beastie Boy Adam Yauch. Chicago's Museum of Contemporary Art has been heralded as one of the city's premier skate spots virtually since its opening. The sidewalks and grounds, being surrounded by knee-high flat rails which grind like room-temperature butter, are only the epilogue to the story that is the MCA. There was this artist named Peterman, who thought it would be a good idea to replicate the artistic quality of picnic tables (emphasizing their bulkiness) by placing them in the middle of MCAs courtyard in a Dada-esque juxtaposition of urban and suburban counterculture. This is all well and good for the art community (who have dubbed these structures "Peterman's"), feeling that by leaving these benches up year-round they are doing a polite civic service to art lovers and meandering patrons alike. Peterman went ahead and unwittingly did us a favor by using recycled plastic in their construction. As you know, recycled plastic has a unique feel to i t when attempting to scrape away all of the artistic beauty with your trucks. This is due to its construction: Recycled plastics are shredded into flakes and heat-pressed into the mold of said desired shape. It is softer and offers less resistance to your body weight, unlike its shorter and more versatile cousin known as the Lockwood Table, indigenous to Southern California. What's more is the unbelievable response of the MCA staff, who actually allow us to skate the Peterman's. Lipslide the Peterman's. 5-0 the Peterman's. 360 flip backside noseblunt slide 270 out the Peterman's. They're just happy to see their investment being put to use, which was Peterman's intent anyway. Useable art. Maybe they think it's good karma or some hippy shit like that. Well, the crotchety old maids and boney-arsed bogman who live within close proximity to the museum came to feel that the sounds of skateboards click-clacking about the grounds were starting to drown out the ambiance of sirens, horns, and homeless entrepreneurs who are temporarily out of work, cash, and mind. So, these old bastards see fit to sick The Man on us every time they hear our menaces to society interrupting their precious Bob Barker. Chicago's finest say no more skating; we must respect the wishes, blah blah...elder community, blah blah...go to the skatepark, blah blah...arrested. Don't you know downtown is off limits, chump? So, no more Peterman's.

But, here's the best part. We got revenge even better than that fat kid Lard Ass from Stand By Me. You see, the MCA hosts a festival on the year's longest day which kicks off the summer in a peaceful gathering of thousands of people, all congregating throughout the 24-hour period to participate in a Pagan celebration of the arts. Puppets, drawing, painting, sculpture, and performance arts abound as the public roam free and sip overpriced alcoholics out of plastic cups in this extravaganza of fashion and function. And what could fit more perfectly in this exhibition of passion, beauty, expression of emotion, and talented individuals with no police supervision? Of course, a wet t-shirt contest! But the organizers of the event decided that a real live skate jam would be more appropriate for the younger crowd... Dickheads! So, with ramps and DJs supplied by Push Skateboarding, the jam was to be the very first scheduled event on the roster. When the zero hour arrived and the crowd had amassed into the tens of tho usands, all cheering for us, the skateboarders, completely disregarding the idea that there had been a huge festival going on outside the building, we thought to ourselves...what a wonderful world. Not only are we allowed to wreak havoc on the grounds we've been ousted from so many times before--in a free and unadulterated manor without fear or reprisals--but we are applauded for doing so. We are thanked. We are the center attraction and we will savor this short time on our obstacles, devouring what we can of them. And we; in return, must thank the MCA for having the balls to host such an event, extending the middle finger to the rotting Medicare recipients and Social Security wastes of space occupying the surrounding buildings. We are videotaped by yuppies, each smiling and clapping. We are taken aside by old men to hear statements like Boy, when I was your age..."

Everybody's happy, some are amazed--mostly us, because they let us skate the Peterman's. Still, wet t-shirts would have been nice.