Madonna
The Confession Tour

It can happen that someone is quietly sitting on their scooter stopped at the traffic light on their way to work.
It happens, right?
It also happens that the car next to you is listening to one of the tracks from Madonna's latest album 'The Confession Tour' (CD+DVD) from the recent Live by the Cicconazza and that, behind dark Ray-Ban glasses, they are blissfully minding their own business while talking on a cellphone that seems more like a hearing aid than a Bluetooth device.

I pull up and ask if they can quickly let me listen to the rest of the tracks for a review of mine on some blah blah site.
The guy doesn't get it but gives me an understanding yes and lets me hear 20 seconds per track—a sampler listening just to see if the Cicconaccia switched things up or if she's giving us the usual harmless dance-hall, good only for swaying in provincial discos.
It starts with 'Future Lovers' mixed with the ever-eternal 'I Feel Love', continues with 'like a Virgin', 'Jump' and so on, arriving at 'Sorry' and you'd really want to forgive her '20 seconds per track is even too much to get an idea of a Madonna album, right? Usual riffs, usual screechy voice in a riot of screams and applause probably inserted artfully in the remix. Is this the Pop Art of the XXI century?!

'Cool eh?? the guy says to me.
'Cute but it's always the same stuff?
'Well, you know it was a gold record in Brazil and was among the top on the Billboard Top 200 chart for 20 weeks, not to mention the countless awards around the world eh??
'no kidding'! Sounds like a decent live album but nothing special, really, the usual clever crafting and nothing more?
'Come on, you can't say that 'MADONNA IS MADONNA!!' and he smiles knowingly.
'Even PRODI is PRODI but when he screws up you have to have the courage to admit it, right'??

It also happens that the idiot accidentally bumps into my scooter mirror. It happens, right?
The idiot has a brutal silver big car, a gold chain/rosary around his neck, a D&G perforated wife, a real jerk face with the attitude of "how dare you bump your lousy mirror into my beautiful car?!" and to highlight this right of his, he opens the door, inspects the possible damage then sits back down, cursing my family and me all the way to the fourth future generation.

It may even happen that the other guy (that's me) has a moment of bewilderment, resets his brain, and becomes aware of the situation.
Sure, it can happen, my God!
With a quick gesture, I extend my arm and press eject: Madonna's disc is spat out by the SONY (and I swear I heard a 'finally' from the stereo?).
I take the CD and frisbee it onto the hedge next to the road.
We look at each other for 16 endless seconds like in a Sergio Leone film completely silenced, communicating only with the roaring accelerators of our mechanical 'prosthetics'.
At this point, it's inevitable that the pig face finds himself with a blood pressure of 1,000 and attempts to spit at me, unaware of the little katana already ready in my right hand.
Two seconds and 32 tenths is the time it takes to make his lousy middle finger fly behind the crappy windshield of his always crappy car.
The stupid head finds nothing better to do than yell the entire 'Zingarelli of Insults' at me, immediately barricading himself behind the crappy window of his bloody-glittered crappy car.
I silently don't even open my mouth except to take two puffs of the freshly opened Smirnoff and look at the traffic light as long as the path of a convict to the gallows.
The light turns green but I don't move: I wait for him to move first. So he doesn't think I'm someone who runs away from responsibilities.
The guy puts in 1st, screeches, and turns entirely towards the Emergency Room.

If he had stepped out, I swear I would have put my hands on his face. If only for the obscene disc he forced me to listen to for 260 endless seconds!
It happens, right?