I

t was all a series of coincidences. I rarely check social media while traveling, but I happened to log onto Twitter while on the road in October to find people talking about the concert, which happened to be organized by someone I know. Someone happened to cancel their reservation. Before I left for my November trip I'€™d already pocketed the much-coveted pass to Madonna'€™s Rebel Heart Tour in Bangkok in February, albeit with much concern.

Since my first visit as a teen, followed subsequently as adult, Bangkok and I have never agreed with one another. Each visit has ended up with a hospital episode. I'€™ve since shied away from business meetings, even holidays to Krabi or Chiangmai, because it involved passing through Bangkok.

But it was Madonna. The first female artist whose album I bought as a little girl, whose earlier songs I knew by heart before I had boys in my heart. The ultimate performer, the trailblazer for the likes of Aguilera, Beyonce and Gaga. The idol that went by one name before artists did it en masse. The one and only Madonna.

So, with quiet trepidation, and a bagful of medication, I took off after Chinese New Year. It happened to be Mardi Gras, the crazy Tuesday before Lent, so I figured if I could survive Mardi Gras in the Year of the Fire Monkey, I'€™d survive Bangkok long enough for Madonna.

I survived Bangkok. Yet I almost didn'€™t survive Madonna.

My concert pass was for the second day. As it was technically Ash Wednesday, I wore black lace, a heart-shaped ring in red leopard print and a cross necklace. I knew I wouldn'€™t win any best-dressed award, for typical Madonna fans are daring clotheshorses, like the idol herself, but the visual attacks as we arrived at the IMPACT Stadium warranted a mild stroke or two. Madonna diehards juxtaposed with Thai ladyboys, a legend on their own, was explosive.

Racy lace was de rigueur, full-sized devil horns were proudly displayed, fishnets and bold lips rivaled RuPaul circa 1990s, neon-colored wigs bounced about and, as I walked to my seat, the iconic cone-shaped bustier flew past by. Long lines were formed in front of photo-op backdrops, where soon we forgot to pose ourselves, too busy snapping pictures of the ladyboys '€” posing in all their flamboyant glory.

And it all still paled in comparison to what Madonna had in store inside.

The stage itself was a giant crucifix, similar to the choker I wore. The first prop we saw was a row of cross-shaped sticks, used by dancers as anything from swinging batons to leaning poles. Just as I lost track of the crosses appearing left and right, pole dancers, I mean aerialists, started scaling up and slithering down poles wearing what could only be described as a slutty version of nuns'€™ habit, taking breaks in between to receive obligatory spanks from the Lady Madonna. A scene akin to Mass procession took place next, floor-length canonical robe included, and before the audience could blink twice, the piece de resistance unfurled before them: The Last Supper.

A full-frontal, unapologetic assault on every major Catholic symbol, in the first half hour of the concert alone. Did I mention that it was also the start of the sacred Lent? That Madonna criticizes the Catholic Church is no news, for she'€™s done that long before priests'€™ child-abuse cases and Dan Brown novels made it trendy to do so, but that she'€™s still openly rebelling against the Church 30 years down the line took me a bit by surprise. I'€™d watched some of her concert videos, yet what she'€™s doing in Rebel Heart Tour takes the word '€œrebel'€ to a whole new level that should include a sympathy hug for the Vatican. The Singapore authorities announced that her Sunday concert would be '€œcurate'€; progress considering she was banned there in 1993. Bishops in Singapore and Philippines have openly condemned her concerts and called for their flocks to stay away. I'€™m so grateful I caught Madonna in the more permissive Bangkok.

As for the rest of the two-hour show, Madonna showed why she earned Billboard'€™s title of the top touring female artist of all time and Guinness World Record as the best-selling female recording artist of all time. The elevated, LED-equipped stage was an act on its own. The costumes were sensational without being reduced to wacky. No need for an army of dancers for the handful she brought was first-class, Cirque-du-Soleil-level of troupe.

The 57-year-old artist herself performed complicated dance throughout with dancers half her age, proving that lifelong discipline of exercise and diet does pay off in the form of long breath, strong core, steady arms and agile legs that swayed, squatted, and swiveled constantly in nine-cm heels. Forget that stage slip last year; Madonna remains fitter than most 37-year-olds in the industry. Even if this is her last world tour, and God forbid she should learn we'€™re discussing her possible retirement, she'€™s going out with a bang.

And for that world-class badass performance, for all the songs that marked my growing pains, for the constant reinventions that most artists can only dream about, and for the rebellious pang that lingers even after all is said and done, I'€™m forever your b*tch, Madonna. In Madge we forever trust.