Karl Elvis MacRae (that crazy motherfucker named Elvis) was born in Iowa City, Iowa in the fall of 1961, but escaped eight weeks later. His parents finally caught up with him in the wilds of northern California, where he was being raised by a collection of circus animals and side-show freaks. There was a short, brutal fight over who had to keep him, and his parents lost. For this, they will never forgive him.
He was educated in the fine arts of partying and goofing off at what is generally known as a ‘school’ but might also be called a summer camp for delinquents. While he was there, several buildings burned down, but no charges were ever filed.
His professional career includes stints driving aimlessly, stealing from cash registers, body-guarding drug mules, breaking stuff under laboratory conditions, selling bongs, spending other people’s money, driving a forklift very very fast, and many years pretending to be a software engineer.
Karl Elvis is a pervert, a writer, an engineer, a very good scuba diver, and won’t take ‘no’ for an answer.. He’s a blogger, a lover, a traveler, a drinker, a gourmet and a gourmand. He is a biker, a kilt wearer, and is not quite completely covered with tattoos. He’s been pierced fifteen times on purpose, and maybe a few times by accident. He’s a good father and a Bad Daddy and a Dirty Old Man.
He reads sci fi and writes erotica, listens to fifties jazz and seventies funk, the heaviest metal, and any band with an ümlauted name. He’s has been called punk as fuck by random strangers.
He’s more dangerous than you think he is, if maybe a little less dangerous than he thinks he is.
You may also find his pictures on the ‘ten least wanted’ list at your local post office.
A journal about writing, love and lust, sex and pain, parenting, anger, kilts,skull rings, drugs, music, piracy, tattoos, geekery, books, food, movies, politics, insanity, and whatever the hell else I feel like saying.
My life, in short. In oblique slices and obscure cross-sections.
Get all up in Karl Elvis’ Grill here