Stay tuned for more information about my upcoming novel, "Burning Blue," due in stores July, 2012. Writing and publishing are slow processes, and I am anxious for everyone to read my story and meet the characters I created.

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My New Novel, Burning Blue, Due Out in July!

Michael J. Kannengieser signed a publishing deal with Passionate Writer Publishing and his novel, Burning Blue, will be released in July. Details about book signings and events will be published here. Burning Blue is a novel about cops, demons, Hell, drug dealers, and has a lot of action. Get reading for a fast, fun book that will keep you awake at night!

Jack Chase is a cop who betrayed his badge when he took money from a drug dealer. Only his late father’s legacy as a department chaplain might prevent him from being prosecuted. When Jack is shot in the line of duty, he has a near-death experience. Yet, he does not see deceased loved ones or Pearly Gates -- he goes to Hell.

If you wish to contact the author to speak at your event or to arrange a book signing, please contact Michael J. Kannengieser by clicking here.

Published in Newsday!

Newsday, a major New York newspaper, has published an article by Michael J. Kannengieser in their OpEd section. Read "The Lights That Never Go Out," here: http://www.newsday.com/opinion/oped/expressway-the-lights-that-never-go-out-1.3158314.

I Have These, and I Am Lucky

There’s an intentionally idiotic contest I have with a colleague who works in my office. It began when I started to amass decorative items on my desktop. Some of them are from my kids, such as a retractable keyboard brush that says “#1 Dad,” a cell phone holder that I use to hold my business cards, which also has “Dad” printed on it, and a stuffed vinyl “Yankees” baseball, among other things.

One day, as I was digging through reams of data, I took note of the stuff I had been hoarding in my workspace. I picked up a scented candle given to me as a Christmas present years ago and said:

“Richard, I have this, and you do not.”

He took note of my offering, searched his messy surroundings, and picked up one of his items—I think it was a can of Pepsi—and replied, “Michael, I have this, and you do not.”

And so, our juvenile game was born.

Yet, that is not why I have these trinkets and souvenirs in the first place. In the past week, I added two wooden shot glasses, one with “Haiti” carved into it, that I bought while on a cruise with my family this summer. Our ship stopped in Labadee, Haiti, and I bargained for them with the shop owner. He started the bidding at twenty-five dollars each. After I told him that only in Fantasy Land could he get someone to pay that kind of money for his junk, I whittled him down to three dollars apiece. When I look at them positioned beneath my monitor, I think about wading through the water under the Haitian sky with my son riding on my back. My wife and daughter are on the beach trying to get a tan, and for a day, we are in paradise.

My business cards could have no better receptacle than the hard rubber stand with protruding arms holding them tightly. My son gave this to me, and I am sorry I don’t remember whether it was for my birthday or Father’s Day. There’s an oversized ballpoint pen my daughter gave me, a small car that somehow wound up in my possession, and a multi-tool a former coworker generously gave me because he thought I could use it. Recently, a young woman who works in the front office returned from vacation and gave several of us flavored tea bags in pouches tied closed with ribbon. This gift has joined the clutter, and I am not sure why it is not in one of my desk drawers with manila folders piled on top.

I’m never sure where my next tchotchke will come from, but I do not seek them out. Except for the silly, ongoing contest I have with my buddy who sits behind me, I wouldn’t assign much value to more than a few of them. Perhaps the miniature medallion with the word “Empyre” painted in script across the top and attached to a rectangular scrap of leather would be in the garbage if it had not helped me win several of our office “one-upmanship” contests.

As I write this, my array of knickknacks seems a bit childish for a grown man to have in his possession. I could toss out the Yankees ball, and I could give the candle to one of the women in the front office. The multi-tool would be of better use in my toolbox at home, and the Disney keychain in the shape of a crown would probably just get lost.

Yet, the shot glasses are from Haiti, and they remind me of the fun I had with my wife and kids on the cruise. The giant pen is a present from my daughter, and the keyboard brush and business card holder both say “Dad” on them. I could never get rid of those. Yes, the word “Dad” makes all the difference when it comes to landing in a trash can or sitting on my desktop.

I have these things, and I am one lucky dad.

By Michael J. Kannengieser
Photo by M.J. Kannengieser

Have Phone, Will Shoot -- Pictures

The cell phone is so ubiquitous, that no one questions the fact that these devices have become more like Swiss Army knives than merely telephones. I remember when I made my first cell phone call. It was in my friend Jeff's car and we were coming back from the Hamptons. It was around 1992. I remember this because my wife and I were married the year before and we were no longer newlyweds by then.

Jeff bought this gray, wedge of plastic with large punch buttons, and a narrow LCD screen for around three hundred dollars. Though cell phones had been around for a few years by then, they were for people with money who also liked to flaunt the fact that they were able to make phone calls from train platforms and restaurants. I joked with my friend telling that if he waited a year, phone companies would be giving them away. Wow, was I right on that one. 

A Ghost in the Dunes

On the second tier at the Nikon Theater at Jones Beach, I settled into my seat for the big concert. My wife and I had taken our kids to see My Chemical Romance and Blink-182 on the Tenth Anniversary Honda Civic Tour. Though it had been quite a while since I had attended a show at this arena, I had a long history at Jones Beach State Park.

My father was a World War II veteran who worked at the Brooklyn Navy Yard for twenty years. Upon his retirement, he got a job with the now-defunct Long Island State Park Commission. He spent his time traveling back and forth among Robert Moses State Park, Captree, and Jones Beach. During the summer, he’d take my brothers, sisters, and me to one of the fields at Robert Moses and leave us there while he went about his duties. I was the fifth of six children, and my older sister was well equipped to keep a careful eye on us younger ones while we splashed around in the waves.

It was comforting to see Dad stop by in one of the park vehicles to check on us. He’d have a worried expression on his face, wondering whether we were having a good time and whether there was any danger in leaving us alone. Back in the late 1960s and early 1970s, when we visited our summer paradise, a tradition was born.

I remember riding with Dad in a green, state-owned truck as he went about his routine. He seemed important wherever he went, and he loved what he did immensely. It was the environment—the ocean and the dunes—that made him inhale deeply and smile as he scanned the horizon. I always sensed that he felt lucky to be so close to nature and to visit such a beautiful place each day. Because he was not a wealthy man, his appreciation for the parks became part of his legacy to our family.

My wife and I make it a point to take our kids to the beach during the warm months. During winter, we eat bagels and drink coffee and juice while watching wild deer from inside our parked car at Robert Moses. When friends are in town, I take them on a tour of the area and share what I know about each location as I recall what my dad taught me. The iconic water towers, the lengthy bridges, and the bathhouses all fell under his purview. My father helped maintain these landmarks. His fingers touched steel beams and stone that tens of thousands of people see each day during the summer.

All that was part of my childhood is still present after my father’s passing. The striped umbrellas, boardwalks, concession stands, saltwater taffy, and amphitheater are as enduring as my precious early memories. As I sat in the fold-down seat at the Nikon Theater last Saturday with my family, I felt as though I were host to a stadium full of strangers. My life had taken root in this very place.

In the waters to my left, boaters awaited a musical performance. Overhead, clouds winked with the suggestion of rain, and to my right, beachgoers bid farewell to the sand and ocean for the evening. I sat back and imagined that, among the wavy crests of sand dunes and the inky shadows stretching wide, my father was smiling, at home in the park he loved so dearly.

By Michael J. Kannengieser

Photo by M.J. Kannengieser

When Faith Died

The week before Easter, I was talking with acquaintances at my son’s lacrosse game. When asked if I was going to church on the holiday, I fumbled as did not know what to say. The answer was no, and the moment of awkwardness did not pass quickly. They could not know that my struggle with faith was more germane at present than ever before.

When my father was alive, I could refer to him and say that he had enough devotion for his entire family. We attended mass when we visited him, or when he came to our home for the weekend I took him to our parish. When he died, those opportunities vanished, and so did my connection to the church.

Seasons Of Living

This is the first Christmas season without my mother and father and it has hit me hard. Granted, I am a middle aged man with a family, and there are those who have suffered greater losses while much younger. Still, my children miss them very much, and their passing left a big hole in our lives. Also, not having parents leaves me at the top of the family tree along with my brothers and sisters. I’m too young for that, I think.

My nieces and nephews are either in college or getting ready to go. My daughter is in high school and we are already picking out universities from websites and catalogs. My son will be entering middle school next September, and I feel like life is sailing past me rapidly. I’m in my forties, sliding down the back end of the hill. There’s nothing but gray hair and an A.A.R.P. membership in my future. I’m not unhappy, but I have a vague sense that I lack accomplishment.

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Public Relations & You

I’ve been asked by a professor at the college where I am employed to deliver a lecture on public relations. My speech is tailored to the young, inexperienced, undergraduates in her class. The main theme will focus on how the demeanor and appearance of job seekers influences potential employers.

In my other professional life, I am managing editor for fiction for an international literary magazine. In that role I get to read some well written stories. In many cases, however, I must turn writers down in short order. My duty is to accept only the best a writer has to offer which complements the style accepted by the periodical I work for. I am intolerant towards authors who submit poorly written query letters which do not provide a plot summary or begin with a salutation. Many of the e-mails I receive are composed like text messages and expose the authors as incompetent writers. This brings me to my earlier ideas on public relations.

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