Sorry, GaGagnostics—you won't be free of this bitch any time soon...
For the third time in 18 months (first time here, second time here), I found myself at a Lady GaGa concert, her second night at Madison Square Garden in her hometown. Her (The?) fame had grown like those irradiated tadpoles in that old Japanese monster movie about giant toads, but it was still general admission on the floor. This was her choice, possibly to keep her megafans closer to the action, possibly to pack more in, possibly both.
Glad bags or glad rags?
“I want your love,” she would sing, "love, love, love," and it might have been easier to receive it like an electric current with all of us pressed against one another leading up to her catwalk. “I want your disease,” and it would certainly be easier to catch one in that petry dish of little monsters looking to be amused and amazed.