Just a Thought...

Why is it that whenever I’m relaxed and content with nothing to worry about, my mind decides that it’s the perfect time to play highlight reels of embarrassing moments in my life?

New Novel! The Heart of Velletri

Read my latest novel, "The Heart of Velletri." Here is the story synopsis:
Michael Koenigsmann is a police officer and the son of a World War II veteran. Michael spends his life investigating how his father was wounded in battle, left for dead, and nearly buried alive during the Italian Campaign. His father, Gene, won’t reveal what had happened to him while overseas. Michael is fascinated when he learns that his late grandfather, Alphonse, was a gangster during the Great Depression. Also, Alphonse was a veteran of World War I. Michael’s journey begins with him trying to discover how his father survived the war and came home to lead the life of a devout Catholic, rather than be influenced by the criminal lifestyle of his father. At the end of his life, Gene tells Michael his story. He honors his father by arranging for a congressman to present Gene with his Purple Heart which he never received for nearly dying in the Battle of Velletri. After Gene’s death, he must accept his own shortcomings as a father and as a husband to move on with his life. The Heart of Velletri is available on Amazon in print and Kindle.

Finding Faith (A Work in Progress)

I originally wrote this when I was still clinging to God. Only recently I decided that my prayers were ascending into a void where no deity was present and that I was wasting time attempting to contact a supernatural being. My life has not changed for better or worse since making this very difficult decision to eschew God and Jesus; the only exception being that I am free to think for myself and be rid of Bronze Age rules and dictums. 

Finding Faith (A Work in Progress)

Some people are equipped with faith. I see a strong belief in God not as something that can be taught, but as a trait or an asset. For me, I simply lack the fundamental ingredients necessary to form any sort of bond with the All Mighty. When I was a kid, my parents took my siblings and me to church each Sunday. There was Catechism as well, but all I learned was to be fearful of God. Jesus was the nice son of the Father; but I learned that to not believe that he is the son of God, and that he died and was resurrected for our sins meant that I was going to roast in Hell for an eternity – just for that. For the simple doubt that enters anyone’s mind that maybe, just maybe this book of ancient text written by people who believed that the Earth was flat and that the sun revolved around our planet (and they’d burn you at the stake for saying otherwise) were absolutely correct when it came to my soul and the word of the Lord.

In my youth, I had a cartoonish view of Heaven. You died, hopefully went straight up through the clouds, encountered St. Peter who scrolled through some sort of giant tome for your name as you hoped a trap door wouldn’t open beneath your feet and send you falling into the flaming pit of Hell. With luck, he’d nod in approval and wave you through like a bouncer at an exclusive, Manhattan night club. You’d turn around and wave goodbye to any unfortunate friends or relatives who didn’t have enough check marks next to their names to make it through the Pearly Gates.

That may not be close to what I was taught during my religious education, but that is what I took away from it all. I was trained to be scared, feel guilty, and to repent, repent, repent. One could never do enough good to earn a free pass in Paradise, and the slightest misstep could damn you forever. In my teens, I rebelled against authority – and that meant against God and Jesus, too. I couldn’t stop thinking impure thoughts with the raging libido of a seventeen-year-old with access to Playboy Magazines. The only reason I started watching Monty Python was because it was on PBS and they (gasp) occasionally showed nudity. But there was God, looking down upon me and shaking his head in disapproval. I was sure Jesus didn’t condone my leering at centerfolds either, and the Holy Ghost, whoever he was, probably put his foot down as well. Wait a minute, I’d think to myself. I was made in His image, and he made women – beautiful women – and it was sinful for me to look at them? Talk about a crisis. It wasn’t just sneaking a peek at naked women that vexed me; it was the idea that just about anything could be a sin. Not listening to your mother and father, lying to others (yes Aunt Beckie, dinner was delicious—ugh), skipping church, talking about classmates, anything that one could do on a daily basis was a sin, and that was just plain frustrating to me.

How could anyone have the fortitude not to sin? What irked me even more was that the other members of the parish whom I sat next to were not better than little, old, hell-bound me, I thought. God, Jesus, Heaven, Mary, Peter, Paul, and all the angels and saints, were way too demanding of my time and efforts; and the world we lived in seemed ill-suited to meet their lofty demands. So, I teetered on the brink of agnosticism; a safety measure with one foot firmly in the God camp, just in case. Why? Because I held strongly to the idea that I could be faithful.

Finally, in my twenties, I became an atheist. And not one of those obnoxious, eye-rolling, “I don’t believe in those fairy tales” kind of atheists. I simply did not believe in God – or Jesus for that matter. This bothered me because I really wanted to believe. I know so many family and friends with a strong faith in God. They have immense knowledge of all that is holy and historical when it comes to religion and Christianity in particular. They seem so certain, assured, and ultimately content. I am sure they did not arrive at their faith easily. The people I am referring to in my life are intelligent and educated. They don’t wave the Bible in the air and quote scripture as if no other fact or idea can impugn such powerful words. They are reasoned, soft-spoken souls who have had some sort of epiphany; or maybe they simply have the propensity for deep, unwavering conviction.

When I had children, I wanted them to have religion in their lives. I figured that as a parent, God would come in handy as a supernatural authority figure who would sit on the sidelines and help me round out the kids’ upbringing as the ultimate disciplinarian. When my children were preparing for their first Holy Communion, they were forced to go to confession – which nowadays the Catholic Church calls Reconciliation (to make it sound like more inviting to the sinning masses). What are little kids confessing to? Not much, really. So, they sit in the confessional and tell the priest that they disobeyed their parents and fought with their brothers or sisters.

Cue the dramatic music: they disobeyed their parents. They sinned little boy and girl sins. I committed those by the truck-load in my early years, and I agonized over the consequences. I only hoped my son and daughter didn’t experience the same internal torment that I did when I was their age preparing for the sacraments. It made me feel guilty that I put them through this at all. Ultimately, it was my latent fear of God and His perpetual punishments, in spite of my stated atheism, and the fact that I did not want to disappoint my father, that I sent my kids to church and saddled them with the same guilt and fright that I carried with me for as long as I could remember.

In church, I’ve sat and watched these children emerge from their visit with the priest after their first confession while waiting for my own kid’s turn. They appear with a sullen expressions on their faces, walking with their heads bowed and their hands clasped, as they rattled off Hail Marys and Our Fathers in their heads. Seated in the pews near their friends, they are buoyed by a sense of relief that accompanies the knowledge that they are young and that death is a long way off. The time to worry about real sins and an actual accounting of all the wrongs they committed in their lives will happen when they are very, very old. That’s what I thought at that age.

After each of my children were confirmed, I stopped taking them to Sunday mass. There was a brief, overlapping, period of time when my father – a deeply religious man – was alive and my oldest was preparing for Confirmation when I still had to pretend that I was a man of God. It was right after my mother died that I would take my dad to the five o’clock mass every Saturday night. During those visits to the Parish of the Holy Cross with dad that I became both envious and resentful again.

In the rows of pews were hundreds of others from my community who gathered together to praise God. I was present, but not one of them. My father’s faith was unshakable and built on the solid foundation of a lifetime’s worth of hardship and surviving the battlefields of Italy in World War II. I admired my dad’s capacity to understand and worship God. His daily prayers and visits to church had a healing effect on him. No doubt he prayed for his family, and I felt a tinge of shame for not praying for him as well – at least not in the way the faithful do. I wished for him  to stay healthy and for good things for everyone else in my life, however, wishes do not constitute prayers.

My parents are both gone. It’s tough to see photos of them since I feel in my heart that as much as time that they spent praying to an angry, vengeful, anthropomorphic, Old Testament God and his progressive, more accepting son, they are by every definition no longer with us. For me to believe that there is a magical realm where one goes after death where we are reunited with our families and friends and all of our pets because we had conviction and performed charitable works takes a leap of faith I do not have the strength to jump. If I had a running start and I ran at full speed while in the best shape of my life, I could not cross the chasm of doubt that is within my heart that prevents me from believing in God. For this I am damned; but that is only if I believe the tenets which outline the circumstances for one to be banished to Hell to begin with. I do not, and I certainly wish I did.

I miss my parents very much and I’d like to see them again. There are some close friends of mine who died young and I often wonder what they'd be like if they were still alive. While I will never forget them, they sit as framed portraits in my memory, and what hurts more than anything is the notion that when I die, and when everyone else dies who knew and loved them, they they have died a second time. The same will happen to the rest of us; after our friends and family die, we die once more with them. There will be no one else to carry memories of us. That is the cold, hard reality of death that frightens me more that a Dante's Inferno. Your name will never be uttered by another's lips, your pictures will have no identity, your character is lost. Your soul becomes anonymous and evaporates forever. Your grave is deep, your body decomposed, or your ashes scattered and mixed with the soil. But you are no longer alive, in person, or in the pages of history. All that you have done is futile and insignificant. Life is meaningless, and there is no point to it all except to support yourself and your family and fulfill any selfish wishes you may be able to afford.

What if after we pass away we actually could reunite with friends and family? We do have something that could be a considered a soul. Our bodies contain energy. All of the science books I have read suggest that energy cannot be destroyed, so there is hope that when we pass away that our minds do go somewhere, even for a brief period of time, and we could perhaps mingle with the others we knew on Earth before our energy is absorbed into a star or a black hole. Maybe God isn’t who we say he is, and that everything written about Him is wrong; that what we must do is love one another and fight off the entropic forces that kill our bodies and prevent civilization from advancing. I’d like to meet a merciful God; one who shows us where we went wrong and sends us back to try again instead of flinging us into an unholy pit of torture for an eternity or rewarding us with a trip to Fantasy Land. If I pray, I’d like a solid answer, and not an eventual turn of events that someone can point to and assert that it was God’s will. I’d like to go to Church and believe that the institution I am loyal to be actually inspired by a creator and not the greed and wickedness of man. As of now, none of these things I ask for seem possible.

Tonight I’ll lay awake in bed for a short time before sleep overcomes me. I’ll think about everyone in my life, what I plan to do, and what I may have done wrong or what I could do differently. If there is a God, and He is listening, I hope my thoughts count as prayer.

ANNOUNCEMENT: New Supernatural Police Thriller, "Burning Blue" Due in Early November

I am excited to announce that this past Friday, I singed a contract with my amazing publisher, Decent Hill Publishers, for my second novel, "Burning Blue." This is a story that is very different from my first book and I hope all of you enjoy it when it is released in early November. In summary: "Jack Chase is a cop who betrayed his badge when he took money from a drug dealer, named Munoz. 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. When Jack awakens, the woman he loves, Terry, discovers his crime and leaves him. Jack is haunted by images of Hell and demons taunt him in both his dreams and while he is awake. He knows from his father’s sermons that redemption is the only way to escape damnation, but he is afraid to confess his sins or go to jail. Not only must he escape the nightmarish images that haunt him, he must make Terry trust him again and bring her back. His only friend, Danny, devises a plan to help him avoid jail and hide him from Munoz. Will Jack be able to save his soul, and his life, and reunite with his only love?" Many of you have read and enjoyed "The Daddy Rock." My latest book is full of action and surprises and even a visit to Hell. Thank you all for your support and I hope you continue to read my work.

iBook Now Available

My Novel, The Daddy Rock, is now available as an iBook. Buy it here.

LAPD to NYPD: Community Policing 02/22 by AmericanHeroesRadio | Blog Talk Radio

LAPD to NYPD: Community Policing 02/22 by AmericanHeroesRadio | Blog Talk Radio

Two New Book Signing Events in April

I will be at the Nesconset Branch of the Smithtown Library on April 11th at 7:00 PM for a public speaking and book signing event for my book The Daddy Rock. Click here for more information.

On April 17th at 7:00 PM I will be at the Barnes & Noble at the Smith Haven Mall for their Local Authors Night. I will be signing copies of The Daddy Rock. Click here for more information.

The Daddy Rock is now available as a Nook Book! Click here to buy.

Book Signing at The Book Revue in Huntington, February 23rd, 7:00 p.m.

I will be at the Book Revue in Huntington, Saturday, February 23rd, at 7:00 p.m., signing copies of my book, The Daddy Rock. All are welcome!

http://www.bookrevue.com/MichaelKannengieser.html

The Daddy Rock is now available on Kindle!

My Interview on American Heroes Radio

Listen to internet radio with AmericanHeroesRadio on Blog Talk Radio

The Daddy Rock Trailer

New Novel, The Daddy Rock, by Michael J. Kannengieser

The Daddy Rock

By

Michael J. Kannengieser

Decent Hill is proud to present retired NYPD cop Michael J. Kannengieser, New York native and author of the new police thriller The Daddy Rock ($19.95 Paperback 978-1-936085-63-7; $9.95 eBook 978-1-936085-64-4). The Daddy Rock is a gripping tale of adventure, crime, rage, family drama, and the human capacity to cope and forgive. Told in a vivid, descriptive, and readable style, Michael takes the reader on an exhilarating ride in this human police story with sympathetic, well-developed characters that will keep the reader turning the pages well into the night.

The Daddy Rock is available now!

Paperback $19.95

Device-independent eBook $9.95

My new novel, The Daddy Rock, is available at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and at my publisher's website, Decent Hill Publishing. 

Retired NYPD cops Roger and Danny are caught in a crossfire by previously incarcerated 

gang members who are now out for revenge. Roger must also deal with ghosts of his past as 

a previously unknown daughter of his, Bonnie, surfaces seeking help. 

Roger must help Danny apprehend the men out to kill them, and he must come to Bonnie’s

aid so she may live in this brand new, thrilling police drama by author Michael Kannengieser.

"The Ascent of Isaac Steward" Available on Kindle!

Fans of Mike French, founder and Senior Editor at The View from Here Magazine, is the author of the brilliant and emotionally powerful novel, "The Ascent of Isaac Steward." Available in print, his book can now be purchased for Kindle at Amazon.com.


"Mike French creates drama in both dialog and exposition. There is emotional conflict -- and hope for its elimination -- with each turn of the page..." author Michael J. Kannengieser

About the book:"The Ascent of Isaac Steward is the remarkable and extraordinary debut novel from the senior editor of the prestigious literary magazine, The View From Here. Written with a literary, lyrical voice, the book follows Isaac Steward in an emotional and original tale as he struggles to deal with the resurfacing of a suppressed memory of a car crash a year ago which killed his wife, Rebekah, his son, Esau, and left his other son, Jacob, in a coma. Isaac becomes increasingly dysfunctional and delusional as the story unfolds in a hypnotic and startling way bringing into play childhood memories of a Punch and Judy show and the revelation from his half-brother, Ishmael, that in order to be reunited with Rebekah he must be brought to a tree from his father's wood called The Dandelion Tree. To help him, Isaac slips in and out of being Major Tom Donaldson, an SAS commander fashioned by his mind to help him regress back to a time of naiveté and happiness before the accident. But Donaldson brings only death and violence and Isaac struggles to keep a grip on reality as he descends into his mind and starts to question if he himself has already died. Atmospheric and sensual and dealing with universal desires of love and reconciliation, The Ascent of Isaac Steward is reminiscent of the surrealist literary experiments of James Joyce but highly readable. Readers will be astounded, transfixed and immersed in the world long after turning the last page."

The Kindle app can also be downloaded on your iPhone or Droid phone! Order your copy today!

Be sure to visit these sites: Author Mike French's website. The View from Here Magazine.

Eight People to Avoid While on a Diet

When you're on a diet, there are people who will sabotage you. Some will be friends, others coworkers, and still others who like to see fat people squirm. These are eight types of individuals to stay away from while you try to lose weight.

1) The friend who is ready, willing, and able to help. This person may or may not even be a real friend. Yet, they see you passing by the fresh bagels in the break area at work. They sniff the air like wolverines at the scent of the container of 2% milk fat cottage cheese you brought in for lunch and they realize you want to lose weight. Whether they are a coworker or someone you're related to, this pain in the ass is going to count every calorie you put in your mouth as if they have a personal stake in your health.

"Are you sure you can have that, honey? You shouldn't have the toast unless it's whole wheat." It doesn't matter which plan you're following, they are the one who is going to make sure you will stick to it, whether they are familiar with your diet plan or not.

2) The Devil in the Devil Dogs. This person is someone you really don't like and you're only polite to him/her because you work with them. Because food is present in most work places for in the form of birthday cakes, doughnuts and bagels for breakfast, cafeteria cuisine, and catering for other corporate functions, this person senses your weakness and derives a gleeful pleasure from watching you squirm while others nosh.

"You can have one, it's not going to kill you," they say. Unfortunately, the food item they point to while grinning as you fight temptation can actually kill you in the long run.

3) The formerly fat person. This saboteur does not understand the damage they do. Having been obese and successfully losing enormous weight, they see others struggling with weight loss as sick patients whom they will both counsel and tutor in the exact same way weight loss occurred for them. They feel camaraderie with you. They are in this battle with you whether you like it or not, or if you need their help or not. Little do they realize that not everyone has the same physiology, mental makeup, and taste buds they do. Also, there is more than one diet plan and some of them make sense for one and not the other. The formerly fat is staked to their system and everything else seems like folly.

"You're allowed five grams of fat a day? That's not good. You'd better read the instructions again."

They become the unwelcome cheerleader in your life, seeking you out at every function, usually waiting for you at the buffet line with their hands clasped in front of them and a helpful smile.

"There's a fruit tray right over there; and, they have melon!"

4) The loving, denying, enabler. This person is most likely a close friend or a family member who needs you to stay the way you are, for fatter or for worse. There is no evil or bad intent with this person. They simply refuse to believe there is anything wrong with you. They invite you to their home, prepare a tray of lasagna, and seem vaguely insulted when you explain that your cholesterol number has a comma in it and you need to lose weight.

"But, I made this because you LOVE lasagna!"

5) Anyone for any reason dining with you in a restaurant who hears you order a salad, and ONLY a salad. You might as well ask for a revolver with one round in the chamber.

"Come on, you're in a restaurant, you can have the pasta. They make it fresh here." Yes, they also sell it in boxes, in cans, and at the pizza joint down the block. That's how you became fat in the first place.

6) The fitness freaks. They are the ones who go the gym before work for an hour of "cardio," so they can work on their abs during lunch and go home after work so they can run through the neighborhood until ten o'clock at night in an orange, reflective vest. They'll pass by you in your cubicle while you open a container of Dannon Low Fat Yogurt with the not-quite-real-fruit coating the bottom of the cup. They'll skid to a stop on one heel, a la Fred Flintstone, and double back to offer you their unsolicited advice.

"How many hours a day do you exercise?" Hours? Per day? The only exercise you get is pushing a shopping cart up and down the freezer aisle of the supermarket searching for fat-free fudgesicles. Sure, you'd love to work out more, but that comes after dropping fifty or sixty pounds so you can reach for a fallen paper clip next to your desk without wheezing.

7) The quasi-medically-trained person. This person can be a nurse, nurse's aide, medical technician, or merely answer the phone in a doctor's office. Aside from an actual medical doctor -- a trained professional who knows you, your history, and who obtained a medical degree -- this person is to be avoided at any cost and more than any of the above. Why? Because a little bit of knowledge is enough to kill you, and certainly is inadequate to help you. This is the person you meet at a party or social gathering and is someone you either know a little or not at all. Usually, you already dropped a lot of weight and you're feeling really good about yourself. Others are beginning to notice your weight loss and you are free for a night out and not have to worry about your diet for a few hours. This person is seated at your table. They may be the boyfriend/girlfriend or one of your cousins. While others congratulate you on your hard work, the quasi-medical person sits back and gives you the once-over with a look reserved for an undated Tupperware container of tuna found in the back of the fridge.

"Your doctor put you on Atkins/South Beach/Weight Watchers/Nutri-System? That diet makes your adrenal-muscular-adenoidenal-hypo-sub-systemic-glandular-cardiac-renal-tryptphanic-glycemic index spike to hyper-abnormal levels. I wouldn't go back to that guy. He doesn't know what he's talking about."

8) The product/system/workout-device salesperson. Anything you're doing is pointless because the dietary supplement, exercise equipment, diet plan, or psychological self-help book, video, or audio tape they are selling is not only the best way to lose weight, improve your sex life, give you energy, improve your memory, kill your appetite, reverse the aging process, it can make you money!

"Not only can you buy this product from us at wholesale prices, you can EARN MONEY by becoming a dealer just like us! You can sell to your friends, co-workers, family (if they still talk to you after pestering them relentlessly until they buy your crap). You can throw parties and invite every single person you ever stood behind on line at the supermarket. You'll be thin, healthy, rich, and friendless. Never get invited to a family function again!"

-M.J. Kannengieser

The Neighborhood Network

A common, American phenomenon disappeared sometime in the 1990’s. I blame it on cell phones. When I was a kid in the late 1960’s and early 1970’s, I’d hop on my bicycle on a Saturday or during summer, and ride off to my friend’s house for the day. The only admonishment I’d receive from my mother was to be home by dinner time. I was no different than any of my friends. We all had an internal clock which ticked louder and louder as suppertime loomed. Our ears were trained to listen for a distinct signal which meant it was time to go home; our parents calling out our names from the front lawn.

It didn’t matter what I was doing or where I was, I could hear my dad’s booming voice from blocks away. My friends immediately understood they were next and their mothers or fathers would signal them soon. Before there were 4G networks and text messages, there existed the “neighborhood network.” Often, the message would be passed along by adult neighbors or other kids, who would relay the dispatch to me. “Michael, your father is calling you.” Sometimes, I’d be too involved in a game of basketball, or watching television in a friend’s living room and I would miss the call. If one of my siblings came looking for me, or if my father had to get in the car and drive through the neighborhood, I knew I was in trouble. 

Doing this today with my children would be odd and unnecessary. They both have cell phones. My twelve year old son, Jeffrey, has one so he can text us from his friends’ homes or from school if he needs a ride. My seventeen year old daughter, Juliana, has one for those reasons and to maintain contact with her intricate network of friends. My wife, Nina, and I would be considered bad parents if we deprived our kids of these devices. During my teenage years, I couldn’t imagine digging into my pocket to answer a call from my mother in the middle of a baseball game with my buddies. Today, my children expect me to text them.

Just once I’d like to stand on my front porch and shout my son’s name at dinner time. He’d be at his friend’s house down the block. I imagine him in the driveway, riding a skateboard with his pal, and he’d stop the moment he heard my voice. He’d look up, I’d wave and be transported back to a time in my life when simplicity and necessity merged together and created a charming and unique tradition. Moments later, I’d reach into my pocket and read a text message from my son asking, “Why are you yelling at me?”

Photo by Michael J. Kannengieser

A Legacy of History

My Dad was more than a lover of books, he was an amateur historian. His library included titles covering WWI, WWII, steam engines, ships (he always wanted to be a sea captain), birds (he was also a bird watcher), and the Civil War. In addition, he shared his passion for reading with our mother who typically sat in the living room after supper with a cup of hot tea and a mystery. 

My siblings and I became accustomed to shelves of literature and history books crammed into every corner of our tiny Cape Cod style home. My father’s grasp of the subject matter was so thorough, one of my sister’s friends, a professor an esteemed university once told me: “Your father knows more about American History than most history professors where I teach. “

It should have been no surprise the amount of books we accounted for in our parents’ home after dad passed away in May, 2009. Yet, after I probed deep into a crawlspace to retrieve a box I discovered in a dark corner using my flashlight, I found an assortment of documents, relics of his earlier occupation, which are remarkable not only in their subject matter, but because my father possessed of them.

I dragged the flimsy, cardboard box from the eaves and into my old bedroom. Dripping with sweat and covered in dust, I eyed the contents, which at first glance seemed unimpressive. Many were reports, plain blue and gray government documents. One of the titles grabbed me. On the pale blue cover, in all capital letters across the top the title read: The United States Strategic Bomb Survey. Underneath, a subtitle: The Effects of Atomic Bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. The words Atomic Bombs were printed in a much larger font size than the rest of the text.

Other booklets caught my attention, too. The End of the War in the Pacific, Surrender Documents in Facsimile, Germany Surrenders Unconditionally, International Military Trials, Nuremberg, and most impressive, Charter of the United Nations, in five languages. There were about two dozen of these government publications. Their numismatic value is uncertain, their historic significance indisputable, but their worth as family heirlooms, enormous.

Details about how my father came to own this collection of historic papers are sketchy. He worked for the U.S. Navy at the old Brooklyn Navy yard in Brooklyn, New York, for twenty years. Dad took the job of forklift driver in his late twenties. He was ill for years after his discharge from the army in November of 1944, battling pneumonia and various infections – all complication from his wounds, and much more manageable with today’s medicines. There, he took advantage of the many education opportunities offered both by the Navy and through the G.I. Bill. He studied accounting, management and mechanics. By the end of his twenty-year tenure, he worked in an office as a labor liaison between the unions and the government.  

Records of his employment, such as training certificates and work orders, gave few clues as to how he would gain access to this trove of government journals. In another box, I discovered a newspaper. It appeared to be weekly published by the Navy for its employees. On the front page, in the lower, right-hand corner, I noticed a picture of a group of men and women in business attire. Among the names mentioned in the caption, was my father’s He was in the back row, taller than many of them, smiling, and according to the description, named to the N.S.A. Library Committee.

As a member of a library commission, he would certainly be able to acquire the items I uncovered in his home.  However, I have not confirmed if the N.S.A. organization he worked for was indeed the National Security Agency, or a defunct branch of the government. Perhaps I don’t want to unravel the mystery surrounding my father’s trove of important booklets. The tiny mystery accompanying them adds an aura to the memory of my father as a man who had influence above the ordinary capacity of a lower-middle-class family man. I’d like to believe my father kept these for their historical significance. I’m sure before he died, he knew I’d find and appreciate them the way he did. I wish he’d have told me about them sooner so I wouldn’t have to crawl through the dusty eaves to drag them out of there.

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.

Please visit Passionate Writer Publishing for great books.

Fans of fine literary magazines should visit The View from Here Magazine.

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 of mine 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,” or a cell phone holder which I use to hold my business cards with “Dad” printed on it also, and a vinyl, stuffed “Yankees” baseball, among other things.

One day, as I was digging through reams of data, I took note of the stuff I am hoarding on my workspace. I picked up and scented candle given to me as a Christmas present years ago and I 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 with “Haiti” carved on one of them which 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 he can 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 waters under the Haitian sky with my son riding on my back. My wife and daughter are on the beach trying to get tan, and for a day, we are in paradise.

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

In the second tier at the Nikon Theatre at Jones Beach, I settled into my seat for the big concert. My wife and I took our kids to see My Chemical Romance and Blink 182 for the Tenth Anniversary Honda Civic Tour. Though it was quite a while since I attended a show at this arena, I have a long history at Jones Beach State Park.

My father was a World War II veteran who worked for 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 between Robert Moses State Park, Captree, and Jones Beach. During summer, he’d take my brothers and sisters and I to any one of the fields at Robert Moses and leave us while he went about his duties. I was the fifth child out of six, and my older sister was well-equipped to keep a careful eye on us younger ones while we splashed around in the waves.

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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A Learning Moment

“Do you want to know what the President did today?” I asked my ten year old son. He wasn’t paying attention as he was playing Nintendo. With my laptop on, I scrolled through news websites with the TV on in the background.

He came over to see what I was talking about. There was a picture on the Drudge Report of President Obama, Vice President Biden, Harvard professor Henry Louis Gates Jr., and Sgt. James Crowley. This was the scene which the President hoped for, a “teaching moment.”

My son asked me what I was talking about and I showed him the photo. I then explained about the arrest of Professor Gates and the misunderstanding about race, and why it became important for President Obama to preside over this meeting. My son sensed that this was a significant story. He nodded his head and listened as I spoke. “He’s doing a good thing, he’s a nice president” he said. He paused over the laptop a moment longer and I patted him on the back.

As a former New York City police officer, I can closely relate to Sgt. Crowley and his handling of the burglary investigation. I’ve never been accused of racial profiling in my career; yet, I can detail incidents where bystanders expressed antipathy towards the white officers present at the scene. Upon reading the report of the incident at Professors Gates’ home, my reaction was to side with Sgt. Crowley.

Phone Envy

My wireless carrier offered me a brand new phone if I added another line. So far, there are three names on our account: my wife, my fourteen year old daughter, and of course, me. Our daughter was the first to chime in on the topic.

She reasoned that my son, who is going into the fifth grade “needs” a phone so he can text his friends (who each have one) and call us when he want to be picked up from a play date. Our carrier would send our son the latest and greatest which technology has to offer; and, I can’t see why he would require such a gadget. I get by with my standard-issue flip phone. Why does he have to own a cell phone with a keyboard and movie camera?

The Business of Men

Mr. Hoyt’s truck overflowed with the stock of his trade; car parts of all types, tires, and occasionally, kitchen appliances. He’d park his large, creaky, vehicle across the street from our home by Mr. Lowman’s house. It was one of many stops he’d make in the course of a day to sell his goods.

Mr. Lowman was a mechanic who relied upon Mr. Hoyt to supply him with the components he needed to run a part-time auto repair business from his garage. We lived in a blue collar neighborhood and it was necessary for people to work more than one job in order to make ends meet. My dad was no exception.

As a boy of maybe five or six years old, I’d watch Mr. Hoyt amble across the street to our home to meet with my dad, leaving his sons to tend to the business of off-loading tires and other items. Dad would greet him at our front door and invite him inside to discuss their particular deals over a cup of coffee in the kitchen. During the holidays, they’d sip whiskey in the dining room like gentlemen, as they would not drink in front of my mother.

My dad was an oil burner mechanic. Mr. Hoyt, being the type of business man he was, knew folks who needed work done and found people to do the work for them. He could rely on my father to answer his phone in the middle of the night and then run out to fix an ailing boiler during the cold, winter months. I am still not sure what the arrangement between the two of them was; but, my father was happy to greet him, and Mr. Hoyt always walked away with a smile and an envelope.

There was nothing peculiar about a grown man providing products and services to the mechanics and utility men of my neighborhood. However, the era of my childhood was the 1960’s and Mr. Hoyt was an African American. One needs to remember these were the years when the late Dr. Martin Luther King was leading peaceful marches across the south, and ultimately in Washington D.C. for civil rights. In the mean time, Mr. Hoyt drove his panel truck across town and through neighborhoods where he was not able to buy a home, in order to provide for his family.

He was a fixture in our lives until I entered high school, and when my Dad found another line of work which was more lucrative and did not require him breaking his back. Mr. Hoyt still visited his other client across the street from us. In his later years, his beard turned white and his body became slightly stooped, as he was a lot older than the men he provided both parts and work for. By then, his sons did most of the driving and heavy lifting, and my dad still invited him inside for coffee when he came around.

In my early childhood, he was the only black man I was familiar with. Yet, as welcome as he was in our home and Mr. Lowman’s, others were not as tolerant.

A man named Slater who once lived in the house next to Mr. Lowman, originally hailed from Kentucky; and, he was fond of displaying a large Confederate flag on his front porch. Mr. Hoyt often parked his truck in front of Slater’s residence, and he had to endure the malevolent Civil War banner staring him in the face. Mr. Slater would then scurry next door upon seeing him arrive in order to purchase wares from him too. That type of ignorance is too baffling to comprehend.

Mr. Slater liked me and would often wave as I rode my bike up and down the street with my friends. One particular Fourth of July, when I was about twelve or thirteen years old he draped his detestable Confederate flag on the wall of his porch again. I reminded him that Kentucky was a border state during the Civil War and officially remained neutral during that conflict, making his allegiance to the Confederacy both odd and gratuitous.

He didn’t wave so much to me anymore after that little history lesson. How he reconciled his bitter, racist beliefs with his genial, yet inhibited relationship with Mr. Hoyt was beyond me.

I can’t remember when I stopped seeing Mr. Hoyt come around. To this day, Mr. Lowman still occasionally fixes cars for pay in his garage but the kind gentleman and his sons aren’t the suppliers he relies on to keep his side business going.

When I was a boy, I understood the awkwardness of whites and blacks doing business in a world of hate, mistrust, and segregation. There were the cold stares of those who drove past his truck piled high with vehicle parts, and with his two teenaged sons in the front seat waiting patiently for their father. The young men would look away or talk quietly while ignoring those who could not identify with my dad and our neighbor who invited a black man to our quaint row of homes.

In the decades since those days when Mr. Hoyt took his commerce wherever he saw fit, our society has changed. One could not appreciate how dramatically different it is now if they did not witness a business man having to tread carefully down a suburban street just to make a living, compared to just a few days ago our nation elected a man to become the next president who also happens to be African American.

I do not know where Mr. Hoyt is today or even if he is still alive. However, I believe that his sons appreciate now, more than ever, the fortitude and courage displayed by their father as he drove down boulevards and across racial divides to conduct the business of men.

-Michael J. Kannengieser

My Father, My Teacher

All which I thought I knew about my father was altered in the final days of his life. I believed, correctly so, that he was a strong, powerful man, both physically and in stature; but; I was also exposed to his profound spirituality. 

In my contemptuous, youthful days, I succumbed to the teen aged notion that I was going to live forever and that God did not exist. It was easy and convenient for me to shed the faith I had instilled in me from the time I was born. I called myself an atheist. There's a haughtiness to that belief system which is attached to the inherent and natural anger experienced by those who are pushing eighteen. Perhaps this is sparked by a fear of being nudged out of the nest into the real world, and by the anxiety which accompanies making a life for oneself which creates inner turmoil. My dismissal of God from my life also came at the same time I rebelled against my father.

He raised six of us, three boys and three girls, and he tended to our sick mother. Often he would take on another job to provide for us, making sure we had the bare essentials to get through life and to keep a roof over our heads, and regretfully, I could not appreciate his efforts.

Advice came in the form of bromides and life lessons, often learned from his own mistakes, which I fended off will the skill of a fencing champ. His instruction also came in the form of actions. He led by example, and often I lagged behind not paying much attention. Only now as a middle aged man raising my own family can I understand and appreciate his philosophies of dealing with difficult bosses, unreasonable deadlines, and the vagaries of keeping pace with and eventually surpassing ones peers. I only wish I had been a better student. 

With that said, I've gleaned much from his final hours, ones in which he suffered greatly. He faced his death with dignity. His bravery came from his strong belief in God and his unwavering conviction. His only regret was leaving his family behind, of not being a father and a grandfather anymore. 

It's not easy to become a role model. Folks often claim to be one and are not up to the task. Yet, my dad was a teacher, provider, husband, caretaker, father, grandfather, friend, and a servant of the Lord for his entire life. He enlightened his family until his last breath. Dad taught me that faith is not foolish, that love exits beyond life, and that death is not the end. 

My father has left us, he's given his last bit of counsel, but I remain his son. Hopefully, with the same grace and dignity he possessed, I can guide my own children through their lives while drawing from the deep well of sensibility and insight my father imparted to me.  God willing, I may also rediscover my faith which I retain a faint memory of from when I was a boy. Dad has shown me the way.

-Michael J. Kannengieser