Boobs. Boobs in every shape, size, and color you can imagine. There were feathered boobs, boobs in beekeepers outfits, there were even boobs in flames. I was at the Alabama Burlesque Festival. I had gone with friends to see a burlesque show. I had seen burlesque acts before but never one with so many acts.
Now, this show went on for over two hours. Not all the acts were great. Most were quite clever. The host, a large-busted and large-afro'ed very brash former burlesque dancer from Minneapolis, Minnesota who liked to swear introduced all the acts like they were family. She was like the naughty aunt a family might not ever acknowledge but was loved by anyone who ever met her. The night went on and the acts went on. And on. And on. By the end of the show I think I had seen 43…no, 44 boobs. They were all blurring together.
The last act, an older woman wrapped in bullets and holding fake guns dancing to Pat Benatar's 'Love is a Battlefield', brought in the senior element to the show. While I appreciate the fact that you shouldn't discriminate based on age, burlesque may be an exception to that rule. She was gasping for breath while walking back and forth on the stage and I was worried she might need oxygen before the end of the act. I think the guns and ammo were a little heavy for her. That part of the show might go over well in the retirement home right after the early-bird dinner in the activity room, but at Lowe Mill? I was looking around the room for the portable defibrillator, just in case she didn't make it through the show.