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The Lisa Diaries by Lisa Carver  

Obsession

November 7, 2000



Celine Dion was twelve when she fell in love with her hundred-year-old manager. She used to wet his photo every night with kisses until it disintegrated and she had to sneak another. At eighteen

she locked the hotel door on him and raped him! Twenty-two years later, the passion hasn’t quit. Her autobiography is filled with minute descriptions of his cancers and heart failures. She wore a dress of ten thousand sequins and snake-danced for the fat geezer when they renewed their vows.

She loves to fuck. She’s expecting his baby (and since he’s a hundred and twenty now, they had to inject her daily with special things to get her pregnant). I love this story of enduring obsession. She says she always thinks of him when she sings and that’s why her songs are so extravagant. It killed her when he wouldn’t let her tell the world about their great love affair (“They wouldn’t understand,” he explained) because she believes happiness is only half when it is not shared.


    

In keeping with that philosophy, I’ve been keeping my unhappiness to myself, hoping that would cut it in half. I’m lonely. Dave works constantly and when he comes home he goes down to the basement where he reads computer books. He feels like he is “so behind.” He works forty hours a week and then another forty learning new computer systems at home. Every so often he comes upstairs to say the house is messy. Sex feels designated (from 10 p.m. to 10:20), like I’m one of the systems he’s juggling. I wish to be adored, and talked to, and befriended, and gone down on, and loved and I want to be very special. I suppose that’s unrealistic to ask for in the long term — nevertheless, that’s what I’m asking for. Dave calls this “complaining.”


    

Today I drank out of the champagne glass from my wedding (inscribed with “Bride” in white curlicues), growing more and more maudlin, until finally I called him at work. This is how it

went:


    

Dave: Hello?


    

Lisa [coughing and trying to sound sober]: Hi . . . uh, are you in the middle

of something?


    

Dave: Yes, actually, I am.


    

Lisa: Oh, okay, bye. [hangs up]


    

I want to be the thing he’s in the middle of. I am jealous of the computer. He says that computers were built to serve mankind but he feels like he has to think like a computer in order to learn all the systems. Computers are built by man, programs are written by man — they already think like we do. But Dave will latch onto any philosophy that satisfies his romantic vision of his own weird slavery. He won’t admit to desiring anything — first it was me he blamed for all the sexual situations I put him in. If he can merge with his dumb computer in the basement, he won’t have to think or talk at all!


    

This is the third time I’ve been drunk in the two years we’ve been together. The first was on the night we met; I was mourning the divorce I’d procured from Jean Louis earlier that day. The second time was our one-year anniversary; I was mourning the death of me as a single person (because Dave wouldn’t let me do coke in the bathroom with my friend).


    

I was conceived against a jukebox, vertically. It’s bad luck to be made by two strangers standing up. Especially when one is short and fat and the other’s tall and gawky and both wear coke-bottle glasses. It’s just not elegant. With my jukebox beginnings, it makes sense that I would be

agitated by singers. If you took a hatchet and cut off half my jaw and sewed my mouth closed at the corners, I’d look just like Celine.



November 8



MTV called, wanting to interview me about sex and music for one of those “History of” shows they do. I jumped in my car for the five-hour drive to New York with a hangover. I was sure the producers would be blown away by my wit and ingenuousness. “Lisa,” they’d say, “we are going to come

film your whole life forever. You are so funny!” But when I got there they coated me with makeup and hairspray and turned four enormous lights on me and all I could talk about was Celine Dion. I know no one cares about Celine Dion, but I can’t stop. She’s my little shining light, like a night light. I feel scared. I think my marriage is dying. I was trying to hide it from the cameras, but all my sadness came out. I might as well have screamed, “How does that weird, little woman keep her love alive? How come I don’t know how?”


    

When I stepped off the stage, I was surprised to see Grant. I’d arranged to meet him for dinner, but I thought that would be later. He’d grown a beard and didn’t look twelve anymore, he looked at least seventeen. Over dinner we talked about all kinds of horrible things, like Michael Jackson having two children and no nose, or admitting that we both are like animals about our food — it’s not nice, but we don’t want people sticking their forks into our plates to share. I told him how I felt short and skinny around all those famous people with great shoes at the MTV studio. Grant told me about the job he had where three old people died and one very old man somehow cut his scrotum and bled into the communal piss troughs they have in Grant’s part of England. I felt completely wonderful and I thought, “How come my mouth just doesn’t work with Dave?” It tightens up when I get around him. It’s literally hard to talk. It hurts. “You always smell nice,” Grant said as I stood with my back to my car door, fidgeting, “even late at night, even first thing in the morning. I wish things were different and you could stay with me tonight.” I kept saying, “I have to go.” Even though Grant smelled good too, I wanted to go home. I just wish that when I got there, my throat wouldn’t start to close. I wish Dave and I would still interrupt each other with “I know! I know!” like we used to.




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ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Lisa Carver is the author of the books Dancing Queen, Rollerderby, The Lisa Diaries and Drugs Are Nice. She’s written for Hustler, Index, Icon, Feed, Newsday and Playboy, among others. She lives in New Hampshire.

©2000

Lisa Carver and Nerve.com, Inc.