I suppose the odds were against Skinful. When throwing a party for x number of people x number of times — eventually someone is going to get hurt. An amazing night at Skinful 2011 turned somber as we made our way to the shuttles around 4 a.m. Blue lights crowded a blocked-off Folly Road, and a security officer informed me that someone had been hit in the road by a car. (Details here)

Whatever effect this accident has on the future of Skinful (and we’re all praying for the recovery of the victim, who is currently in a coma), the mood up until this sad end to the night was afire with the same indescribable energy felt whenever one first walks through the party’s entrance. For most people, if they’ve been before, it’s the best party they’ve ever been to. There are always a handful of Skinful virgins, but they’ve heard — at this point, that’s why they’re here. And it was better, and bigger, than ever.

There’s no way to take it all in. I started a boob-to-Hunter S. Thompson tally. The Gonzos had the titties 5 to 1. Five to two, actually, since where there’s one boob there’s usually another. But where was the skin? One topless girl does not a Skinful make. The booze ran out early, and the VIP areas were over-crowded (a call to the organizers on Sunday revealed that someone lifted a stack of VIP wristbands at the gate and handed them out freely, costing the Brick House Kitchen owners a chunk of change they didn’t make at the cash bar). Once the bars were liquidated, it was difficult to even find water.

But it really didn’t matter. Sol Driven Train brought out Elise Testone and started a zombie Michael Jackson “Thriller” dance party. Somewhere in the party, Mix Master Mike and Too Short rapped. I didn’t get down on the main dance floor until well after 3 a.m., when the New Birth Brass Band played their far-from-polished New Orleans funk parade like only a real Ninth Ward brass band can. “Stop Playin, Give Me My Money, I Got to Pay My Bills,” read the main emcee’s T-shirt — these were genuine NOLA street players.

There was plenty of disturbing gore as well. We sat down to watch a fire dancer, but the performance quickly shifted into a petite young redhead allowing onlookers to staple $20 bills to her thigh and buttocks with an industrial staple gun (I’m not kidding). Alongside the main stage, creepy cartoons depicted forests of penises emerging from the ground and penetrating multiple orifices of alien-looking females. Next to that, the truck-sized fire-breathing metal dragon was a nice touch.

We wandered and danced in alternating disgust and delight until 4 a.m., when we walked out into the confusion of Folly and Grimball Road and found the intersection blocked off by ambulances and fire trucks. Let’s hope the victim survives, and provided he does, let’s hope Skinful lives on as well.