I alluded a couple days ago to having attended the mother of all clothing swaps last weekend, where I scored brand new Nike shoes, TF.

The person hosting the swap, a friend of my pal the Ukulady, lives in a fancy-pants house on a cliff overlooking the Pacific Ocean. This was a girls-only event, save for several cabana boys keeping the glasses filled.

I wasn’t quite prepared for the onslaught. I didn’t even get in the door before the many, many grabbing hands of many, many fashionable ladies relieved me of my swap items. Whoosh and goodbye, burgundy leather jacket, beaded blue blouse, weird striped flamenco skirt. It was a frenzy.

It was also kind of a nude frenzy. I mean, not only just incidental, “I’m just trying on Becky’s beaded blue blouse” nudity, but lots of paradin’ around — plenty of flesh, save for masks and feathers and body paint. And various shades and flavors of impairment. Ukulady finally hipped me to the fact that this was a more, um, creative than usual crowd, lots of artists and performers and Burning Man enthusiasts.

Let’s just say it wasn’t really my scene but I enjoyed the visit. And, in addition to the running shoes, I scored a big giant pile of really good stuff. And I helped bag up the mountains of leftovers destined for donation to a woman’s shelter.

As much as some of you may be hoping, I cannot share any more anecdotes nor any pictures of the paradin’. I will show you the Ukulady trying on a shirt and a skirt:

And some chicks. What, they’re naked, right?:

And the view of Malibu from the house:

So all that’s left is to say: ta-ta.