The Lies and The Laughter was a blog I created a few years back when I had first moved to Hawaii. It was a project I enjoyed immensely. Starting this blog provided me with the opportunity to share with people the things that interested and inspired me. Now that I've traded a life in paradise for one in the 'freak kingdom', I've decided to discontinue this blog. It will remain up, for there are many posts that still receive a fair number of hits, and to deprive people of them would be a shame. :)
I have several new projects that I'm going to be launching over the next few months, you can check out caseymensing.com for details.
Thanks to everyone who followed this blog and I hope you will continue to read and enjoy my current and future writings wherever on the internet they may be found.
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
When the cocaine boom hit South Florida in the late 1970's, Hank McCarty was right in the middle of the action. By the mid 1980's, South Florida had gone from the land of tourists and retirees to the cocaine capital of the United States. Chief of Police Curtis McCarty and Mayor Hank McCarty had manged to lead secret lives, until one day the bottom fell out and the DEA took them down. Now faced with an uncertain future, nineteen year-old Will McCarty has to make the decision whether of not to walk away from his life as a college student and enter into the family business in order to take care of himself and his family. Last Fair Deal, the sordid tale of the McCarty family, is a cinematic work of contemporary fiction that combines elements of pop mythology, neo-noir, and American pulp fiction.
Posted by Mensing at 07:41
Monday, May 14, 2012
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Saturday, January 7, 2012
That's all it took for poor Constance Buzza's perception of her mother and father to change dramatically. Constance was deep in those painful and awkward years of her life that we all think terribly upon. This week had already been difficult enough, what with the rumors, the stress breakout on her forehead, and the fact it was that time of the year when the boys would be separated from the girls and sexual intercourse would be discussed in a frank and ridiculous manner including films that involved changing bodies.
Constance and her mother were driving down Franklin Ave to catch Highland then on to the Hollywood Freeway. Constance had spent her entire life living in Los Angeles, as have her parents and grandparents. Her mother Helen grew up in Compton, California, her father was raised amongst the bohemians and freaks in Venice. In the early 1980's, Helen was working at Charmane's Wig Store in Compton, and her father had just gotten off the road, from touring California and the Pacific Northwest with two other magicians. Her father had grown up a traditionalist in the magical arts, but he and his fellow magicians, Luke Wallace and Danny Ray, had developed a three man show that combined prop comedy, traditional magic, illusions, and rock theatrics. There were costume changes, lighting effects, and a three man juggling bit that involved comically over sized dildos. The shows had been successful and now Randy was back in Los Angeles to do a few nights headlining at The Magic Castle, enabling him to return to his roots, while he developed his act for the next tour.
Helen and Randy had only been married a few months before he had left on tour. They both looked forward to his return in that special way that two people who wish to spend some quality naked time with each other do.
As Constance and her mother made their way down Franklin Ave, Helen broke the silence in the car. “Oh sweetie, look, it's the Magic Castle. You were conceived there. Your father was working there then, back when he was still employable. One night after his show, we had sex in the dressing room, and that's when I became pregnant with you. It was a surprise to both of us . . . See you are a magical girl.”
Constance had been staring out the window thinking about how much she hated Lyndsey Duncan because she had kissed Dave Kennedy at Shelly's house. Constance was in love with Dave Kennedy. Deeply and tragically. She had been thinking about kissing Dave Kennedy and if sex would be as horrible as it seemed in Sex Ed class. This is what thoughts Constance had been drawn out of by her mother's admission to not only having intercourse with her father, but where it had taken place and that it had directly lead to her existence . . .
Saturday, October 29, 2011
Memories are smoking guns
in the hands of girls
with black painted nails
and curse words on their lips.
The music is dark
She and I are in this room to be desired.
Gas to the flames of our self-destruction
The trust fund gypsy dances in jeans
precariously slipping off her hip
toward the floor.
She has a tattoo for every obsession
likes the taste of blood on the blade.
She offers a glance, steps toward,
gets close enough that we
almost graze lips.
The sharp pain of electricity coursing
assaulting, violating, all sensation.
Her desire. Lust and punishment.
Salvation in every orgasm.
She wants the lash,
my lips upon her wounds.
I am raw nerves,
slipping in and out of identities.
Bones twisted to form erotic fixations.
Missionary times are long past
Awkwardness, a flash of light
Tonight, only I and the moon rage
Darkness, driving me toward sanity’s edge.
These four walls are anywhere, always.
Paintings of expressionist abortion stories
and portraits of a crooner,
who once upon a time,
set loins and Atlantic City on fire.
Carnal skull is full of lover’s memories
Lust, demands spring must come before dawn
Tongue seeks out lips as
the butterflies of July flutter and twist.
Her body is my sole narcotic.
Toes to thighs. Hips to eyes.
She unbuttons the boundaries.
Rejoices in the scattered explosions,
tricks of lights.
Switchblade tongue. Welcoming chest.
Midnight is without dimensions.
The center is breath. We are without shape.
I've been baptized twice
Neither time did I close my eyes or shout.
We're composed of white noise
Heaven is stars and impetuous voices.
Lies are innocent when laced with moonlight.
Her body is love torn, a canvas of scars and tattoos,
places and lovers.
She wasn’t always an open wound.
She was once worshiped.
Then gave into wanton words of sun and moon.
She is a fire that burns, still singing the songs of the elements,
dancing until the heathens believe.
Detached from future and past.
Ours is a bed of riddles.
Eroticism breaks apart in the sunlight.
I am hers when the moon is encircled by flames.