I attended my first Roller Derby event last week and loved it. Loved the action. Loved the girls (yeah, they call themselves "girls"). Loved the crowd. Loved the fact that Roller Derby manages to be simultaneously a serious competition and a huge goof.

But what I loved most is that it was a valuable reminder to not clutch too tightly to your stereotypes.

You may remember Roller Derby from another era. Back then, it was stagey and theatrical, sort of like professional wrestling. Some skill and athleticism were on display, but that was subsumed by the choreographed violence and made-up feuds. Let me be blunt about its appeal: It was chicks fighting.

That was then. This is now. In the new version of Roller Derby, there's no fighting, no choreography and no preordained victor. There's plenty of violence, but it's of the type you see in football rather than in a bar brawl. Better yet, there's no flavor of exploitation to it. The local two-team league, Carolina Rollergirls, is run by the skaters, for the skaters.

Translation: No one tells the Rollergirls to dress that way or choose those outrageous names. They do so because they like it.

"We're really athletic, but at the same time we wear fishnets and really short skirts," said Teflon Donna, one of the Rollergirls. "I really like that part, too. I wouldn't dress like that for work."

Just for the record (No. 1) -- I also really like that part.

Just for the record (No. 2) -- The names the Rollergirls take for themselves are a hoot. My favorites are Charla Maim and Candy Stroya. Some of the Rollergirls are almost like Method actors: They stay in character and don't reveal their real identities. Others readily admit to their true names and professions.

It should be clear to you by now that there's a distinct post-feminist flavor to Roller Derby. The skaters can dress provocatively or conservatively, and can call themselves whatever they want; it's each participant's choice. Most of them opt for flamboyance.

"[The women] wanted a sport of their own, but they wanted to keep the camp," says Tom Welsh, a skate instructor who coaches the Rollergirls.

The public is starting to get in on the camp. Last week, the Carolina Rollergirls hosted a bout with the Minnesota Rollergirls, and the home arena was filled to its 720-person capacity. Tattoos and piercings were much in abundance in the crowd, but so were kids and grandparents. The Rollergirls sometimes now are asked for autographs. A sufficient number of new skaters have signed up to make it possible for the local league to expand to three teams. It's catching on -- which suggests that lots of people are getting past their (and my) stereotype.

I didn't know any Roller Derby participants before last week, but I was sure I knew what they were like: loud, boisterous, trailer park-y, badly educated and missing a tooth or two. (In other words, pretty much what your average Northerner thinks of us.) Turns out the Rollergirls count two graphic designers, a couple of teachers, a speech therapist, a chemist and an energy researcher among their ranks.

Imagine that. They're just like anybody else -- except with torn fishnet stockings and lethal elbows.