It is lunchtime at New York's Mandarin Oriental hotel, and Lisa Marie Presley is piqued. At the tabloids, or maybe at the people who read them—bottom-feeders, she says, who are basically crossing their fingers, hoping she will self-destruct.
"They want me to be him. It's like they can't wait," she groans over green tea and tofu dumplings. "The tabloids were going so far as to alter photos. I could never figure out why they went to all that trouble to make me look fat."
Then, after seeing yet another distorted picture of her, shot from the ground up with headlines heralding her imminent demise, an epiphany.
"It's this morbid obsession. We had to get a lawyer to stop them from putting his face on the cover of a tabloid with me. Sick."
When your father is Elvis, and you share his high cheekbones and lush, downturned mouth, you inherit a certain amount of baggage. The crazy, stalking, sideburned people. The inability to ever, even for a moment, be seen as your own person, and not just the offspring of a deity.
Even so, the sinister hope that you will perish young and out of control in some sort of real-life reenactment of your father's tragedy—well, that was something new.
"They want me to be miserable," Presley, 40, says flatly. "Especially when my life is good."
Recently married to her longtime beau, musician Michael Lockwood, Presley is pregnant with twins. It was news she hoped to keep private, but the gossips outed her—not for having a celebrity "baby bump," but for b...