It would be nice if Lady Gaga produced music as avant-garde and intriguing as her meticulously curated fashion. It would be great if she weren’t currently sparking self-immolation by flipping the bird to Mets fans and generally seeming irritated by fame when her insatiable hunger for it is the cornerstone of her entire pop art persona. And it would be friggin’ fantastic if she’d fallen in line with my prediction two years ago—when my friend at her record company kept groaning about Lady Something who was being forced to lose this-much weight and have that-many plastic surgeries—that she’d be a flash in the pan and we’d never have to hear that terrible song about losing car keys and just dancing ever again. It is horrifically confusing, this feeling: to be so wrong about someone, yet want their shoes so much. At 8

Tue., July 6, 8 p.m.; Wed., July 7, 8 p.m.; Thu., July 8, 8 p.m., 2010