Writers’ Bios — Perry Broxson

Most readers know a bit about me. Some readers know a lot about me . . . but not everything. And almost no one knows much about The Twins. Gary’s and Perry’s stories have graced these pages for the better part of two years now — or is it longer — and readers know squat all about them.

I thought readers might be interested in reading a bit of background about these twins, so I asked them to write a little bit about themselves (I asked the Twins, not the readers). Next up is Perry’s bio.

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I was born in June of ’63. Yes, it’s possible, though not probable, that I could’ve been the second gunman on that grassy knoll in Dealey Plaza. However, it’s more likely that my twin brother shot Jack, given that I was a runt, and consequently remanded to a steampunk-style incubator for several months.  

Scrawny and squalling, I grew up in Florida. Not the schmancy part of Florida – the panhandle – the redneck Riviera, as it’s deridingly called. We did all the typical things hick kids did: sporting, hunting, fishing, frog-gigging, and fighting. Just when it appeared that we were predestined to be Good Ol’ Boys, my brother Gary and I discovered art. 

Per the whims of the Fates, we happened to be talented doodlers. We drew what boys draw – monsters and monster trucks and monsters driving monster trucks. And we were good at it. Eventually, I pursued a career in the graphic arts. Some decades on, I find myself 36 years into said career, still loving every minute of it. 

I’ve traded monsters for missiles, providing graphics and animations for military contractors. It’s taken me to the reaches of the world – a total of 17 years abroad, as an expatriate. It could be said: The kid from the sticks made good. 

I’ve crammed a lot into these precious decades. Along the way, I managed to snag a wonderful wife, raise two fine young men, and enjoy my grandchildren.

There’s one more thing that cannot be understated: I played. I played a helluva a lot. I’ve logged thousands of hours on basketball courts, tennis courts, squash and racquetball courts. I’ve run marathons all over the world and golfed some of the coolest courses on planet Earth. Yes. I played, and I still play . . . albeit, at a less proficient level. In another twenty years or so, I may even take up the end-of-life dissipation called Pickle Ball.  

Despite my storied vocation and avocations, I have yet another itch – it’s the irksome infection of Writing. There’s only one cure for this chronic disease, and that’s to sit down and just damn well do it. Which I do. Not to any vainglorious success, but to my personal satisfaction. Sure, I have a readership in mind when I write – typically, my clone, Gary – but ultimately, writing is the one “sport” that I have complete control over . . . if one can say that riding the bare-back bronco of creativity is control.  

One day . . . one fine day . . . I hope to combine my skills of imagery and imagination and illustrate my Best-Selling Novel. Until then, I am content to spend my cool Colorado evenings with my long-suffering wife, chatting fireside, sipping bourbon, creeping ever closer to retirement – the time I’ve secretly set aside to fully embrace my mistress, Fiction! 

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Addendum by E. J. D’Alise:

I met Perry through racquetball in late 2005 or early 2006. We hit it off pretty quickly, and bantering was the norm between us.

At one point, he sent me a photo of him dancing atop a table at Hooters (it was his birthday). I thought it was pretty ballsy of him to provide me with such ammunition, and I took the opportunity to do a riff on the old MasterCard ads that used to run around that time:

At the time, I also used to give him grief for wearing loose tank tops, trying to dissuade him from the habit. He made a comment about the manliness of jocks wearing tank tops, so I doctored up a Richard Simmons photo to counter the manliness argument. I give you . . . Perry Simmons!

For the record, I’m sharing these with his permission and encouragement. One of the things I like about Perry is his sense of humor. That, and the fact he can keep up with me in discussions about deep subjects . . . or, maybe, I’m keeping up with him.

I don’t have many friends (in the true sense of the word), but I consider him one.

That’s it. This post has ended . . . except for the stuff below.

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