It was a revolution.

On Monday night, a legend came to the Colonial Life Arena in Columbia, SC. He announced his plans a mere week and a half before he took the stage. Tickets went on sale a short week before the show. People all around the state were vying for tickets as soon as they were available. But, we got 'em. We got the tickets. And we were stoked.

Before the show, we stopped in at Liberty Tap Room for drinks, and you'd have thought that someone puked purple, glitter, and sequins all over the 40+ age group of women (and some men) in town. The place was packed with middle-aged ladies decked in feather boas and violet jewels and tiaras. Women in belly-baring shirts (that most of them had no business wearing). Really, the level of style reverted back to the 80s, when people loved big bangs and mismatched patterns and Olivia Newton John...when everyone was ready to party like it was 1999. And, in this city, where everyone wears their church-going natures like badges of honor, and hides their love for debaucherous fun like Mormons pretending not to drink caffeinated beverages, you had to wonder what these people were doing out in public, showing off their wild sides. It was quite a spectacle of mayhem, the level of excitement and anticipation for this artist. It was awesome!

We arrived at the arena just when the opening act was finishing up. I don't even know who they were. Did it really matter? Absolutely not. We weren't there to see them.

The first thing that attracted attention was the stage. The massive stage that was shaped in the symbol which the artist changed his name to in the early 90s, when he became 'The Artist Formerly Known as Prince.' It was incredible. Lights traced the whole thing and it took up almost an entire basketball court. Immediately, it was obvious that this was not a show to be reckoned with. This was something unlike anything Columbia has ever seen.

And then, he came out. Or should I say, rose up. He was rose up out of the center of the stage, with smoke and purple flashing lights to the screams of thousands of concert-goers. In all of his glory and flashiest costume, he was relinquished onto the stage like the messiah of 80s music that he is. And there he was: Prince. And he hadn't aged a day since he first busted onto the pop scene when he recorded Little Red Corvette. Damn. With silky smooth skin, beautiful hair, and a lithe, fit figure, he was a testament to either good plastic surgery or amazing genes. So, he did his thing. He wowed the crowd with his crazy dancing shenanigans and rapturous voice, which he honestly keeps in tip-top condition. I have no idea how that little fella ran, twirled, and jumped around the stage like that and managed not to miss a beat to any song. He's a true artist, my friends, a true artist. He was dazzling and sparkly and beautiful.

And as he sang, I was taken back to my days at Red Wing Roller Rink. I remembered suicide fountain drinks, shooting the duck, jelly bracelets, and Pac Man. I remembered his MTV video for 1999. I remembered 16 Candles and A Nightmare on Elm Street. I remembered friendship beads and parachute pants. Jams and shirts that hung off the shoulder. Hair spray and blue eye shadow. Man, those were the days. The level of tacky was irreplaceable and outstanding and carefree.

People didn't seem quite so uptight back then. And on the night of March 21, 2011, people in this town lost some of their inhibitied and pretentious nature. They let loose and didn't care who saw them shaking their groove thangs or singing at the top of their lungs to some of the best songs the world has ever, and will ever, know. It was a revolution in a town that definitely could use a little easing of modesty. So, thanks, Prince. You should come back more often.