It always starts with the manic widening of the eyes. That's followed very closely by a piercing, shrill scream. Random acts of melodramatic histrionics then take place here, sometimes involving me being physically attacked, ultimately ending with me being called a bitch. Yes, telling friends you're flying to Tokyo to catch Madonna's Confessions Tour is pretty similar to admitting to a lover you've slept with his best friend. "I didn't plan on doing it," I would defend myself, shielding my body from a steady succession of limp-wristed slaps. "It just happened!"

My Madonna tryst really was unexpected. Boyfriend scored us tickets through a friend and a week later, we found ourselves in Narita Airport, broke from not having had time to put aside cash for a little vacation, a little nervous about not being able to speak the language in a notoriously monolingual country like Japan, and more than a little grumpy from the awful flight we had just endured. Apparently, heightened security means flight attendants no longer have smile or pretend they even give a shit.

No matter - I was in Tokyo (yay, tourism!), with my boyfriend (yay, romance!) holding two out of 80,000 tickets that were sold out in a record five minutes (yay, fate!). I shook off the negativity, smiled a big smile, and made my way through the wilderness of gay Madonna fans in aviator sunnies clearing through immigration. I was going to have a blast and nothing - not money, language, or trolley dollies - was going to stop me. Now if only I could actually see Madonna.

I don't know why I didn't expect my tickets to suck. After all, we did only pay S$200 (US$125) per ticket when there were people bidding US$800 for front-row seats on eBay. Boyfriend did warn me not to expect super seats, but I guess I'm just delusional that way. To be fair, the seats weren't completely awful. Sure, she did appear to be smaller than a Lego man from where I was perched, but it was a whole lot better than what the people up in the nosebleed seats of the Tokyo Dome must have experienced - they wouldn't have been able to tell if it was a bearded Japanese man in a leotard up there on stage lip-syncing to "Hung Up." Thank goodness for the big screens erected on both sides of the stage.

Several other quirks (and that's putting it nicely) of the Tokyo Dome didn't help my far-and-away situation either. Because of what I'm guessing is a security measure, the lights over my section of the stadium never got turned down. As if that wasn't bad enough, the sound seemed to only come from the front instead of all around. There was also a giant mesh netting that separated the elevated section of the stadium from the people on the floor, presumably to deter any potential freeloading section-jumpers. All that added to a feeling that I was looking in on a performance rather than actually being part of an experience. But despite all that, Madonna still rocked.

There are pop concerts and there are Madonna concerts. While fellow pop divas Beyoncé, Christina and even, dare I say, Kylie, simply shimmy and pose their way through an hour-and-a-half, Madonna's concerts are considerably more thought-through, painstakingly choreographed, and intelligent. Just look at Blond Ambition, The Girlie Show and the Drowned World Tour for further proof. These are not just a series of random songs being performed - they are part and parcel of a bigger picture. Not that it was by any means a perfect picture, of course. Even our Madonna has her missteps.

Let's get the bit with the cross out of the way, shall we? You've read about it - Madonna, crucifixion, the Pope is pissy, religious leaders are outraged, blah, blah, blah. I didn't think it was blasphemous. Was it offensive? Well, anything can be offensive to a person who will be offended. The American dude in front of me had his arms crossed and shook his head a lot. To me, it was a beautiful, striking scene.

As Madonna is slowly raised from the ground on her mirrored cross during "Live to Tell," a count begins above her, starting from zero until it hits 12 million, which you find out, is the number of orphans created by HIV/AIDS in Africa alone. Madonna has said in a statement that the performance is a "plea to the audience to encourage mankind to help one another and to see the world as a unified whole" and that it was "neither anti-Christian, sacrilegious or blasphemous". Was it moving? Very. Did it work as a piece of performance/installation art? Without a doubt. Did it work as a concert piece? No. It weighed the show down too early (it was the fifth song) and did nothing to propel the show forward.

But missteps like the mock cruxification, an awkward disco-fied "La Isla Bonita," and a painfully boring "Like It Or Not" were few and far between. The rest of the concert kicked ass. You may have read that "Forbidden Love" features two men - one with the Star of David painted on his body, another with a Muslim crescent - performing a homoerotic courtship-like dance using only their hands. Well, a gorgeous imagery also unfolds on the screen behind them, starting with a single cell that forms a red blood cell, which then multiplies, ultimately forming sacred symbols like the cross and Ying Yang symbol. A delicate, stripped-down version of the usually electronic "Paradise (But not for Me)" was also a thing of beauty, framed by a backdrop of Cherry Blossoms and light snow. I also loved, loved, loved when Madonna's dancers surprised her onstage wearing Power Rangers masks during "Ray of Light."

My favourite part of the show, however, was the Never Mind The Bollocks rock segment. Yes, I know most people spent their hard-earned money to watch a boogie woogie fest, but a guitar-strapped Madonna tearing through "I Love New York" and posturing around the stage like a wired-up Iggy Pop during "Let It Will Be" was priceless. It was also the only segment of the show big enough to fill an entire stadium and not let the people in the crappy seats feel left out.

By the time Madonna said goodbye with "Hung Up," I was sweaty, exhausted and inspired. I thought to myself, I want to be just like Madonna when I hit 48. I want to be wiser (or at least wise enough to find out where the seats are before buying tickets), richer (or at least be able to afford more than ramen the next time I return to Japan), and good golly, I want to be able to wear spandex.