alanjohnstone.com

Country Lake

Sun, 7 Aug 2011 08:42:15 -0700

I wrote this on Sunday morning before everyone was awake, and before I had any coffee or located a hairbrush

Charles Remembers a Pizza

Wed, 16 Mar 2011 05:47:42 -0700

This is somthing I did for fun a few years back with Charles Wyrick who owns Lucky Dog Studio. Once again, a combination of Flash and Vegas.

Montage for CELA / PHS

Wed, 16 Mar 2011 05:20:37 -0700

This is a still image montage I put together to showcase my workplace. I created this using Vegas Video and Flash.

The Wages of Sin

Fri, 11 Mar 2011 09:25:16 -0700

Divine intervention, Please?
Near my parents home in rural Cottontown Tennessee, there is a small Country Church that rests in a thick grove of trees off a narrow winding road. Easily, this church could have been depicted in any number of stoic Norman Rockwell paintings: A white, wooden rectangle with an economical steeple bearing a plain metal cross. Stained glass windows fill the barren void with sparse splashes of color and images of Jesus on the cross and Mary looking down at her newly-born infant. Nearer the road there is a painted metal sign that has been there as long as I can remember. On the sign, a painted message intended to inspire and motivate passers-by with it's holy God-granted words.
The message is this:

"The Wages of Sin is Death"

This single sentence has driven me crazy for years. It just doesn't sound right.
Shouldn't this be written, "The Wages of Sin ARE Death?" ... or even better, The WAGE of Sin is Death?
Yet, when I type this sentence into Word, I get no annoying squiggly red lines. No personified paper clips or happy little doggies creep onto my screen to tell me I'm doing it wrong.
...So what's the deal?
Perhaps it's because this is a direct quote from the King James translation of the scripture, and no one with such divine guidance could ever make a grammatical error.

Can anyone with exceptional sentence diagramming skills give me a hand with this?

I know that the prepositional phrase, "of sin" can be removed with no structural recourse. We end up with, "Wages is Death". Death must be the subject, so we can turn this around and make it "Death is Wages", but there's only one "Death" so shouldn't there be only one "Wage"? Either that or plural deaths (which makes sense since there are definitely more sinners than just one out there). Perhaps it should have been phrased,
"Multiple Deaths are the Wages of Sin"
or "If You Sin, Your Gonna Pay by way of Death"
or "Sin?, Your credit's no good here... NOW DIE!"
or simply, "You Sin, You're Dead!".

No matter how it's phrased, it's pretty harsh ...
Point taken.

Haunted: Why I Sleep With the Light On

Fri, 11 Mar 2011 08:35:14 -0700

Haunted (or Why I Sleep with the Light On)
I guess it started when I was about four years old.
Was it a dream? ... I'm still not sure.
All I have now is a shadow-gray memory of an event� a sketch from an instance of sleep that was abruptly interrupted. On the night in reminiscence, I awakened with a start and stared into the darkness wide-eyed, attempting to absorb any bit of light that crept into my room from under doorways or beyond window shades. The effort was futile and only the swirling images of darkness filled gaping pupils. I can recall a sick feeling of exposure... or maybe vulnerability is a better term. It became consuming in the darkest moment of night and no amount of covers pulled overhead could diminish its power. On this particular night, the feeling was overwhelming. All senses, with the exception of sight, were heightened to superhuman levels. I was frozen in position: straight-skyward, white knuckled, covers bellowing from flared nostrils, invisible in the darkness. Short panicked breaths escaped my body and enveloped the room with sound. Something was about to happen and I new it. I could sense it.
That was when I felt something�
Something physical this time.
There was no alienesque monster, no maniacal disembodied laughter, no tunnel of light, just a simple and deliberate tug� then another � and another.
Slowly and methodically the pillow that occupied the space between my head and mattress was being pulled from its comfortable residence. I was terrified and unable to move, speak, or scream as the tugs became a steady pull and my head came to rest on the harder surface of the bed. I watched with wide eyes... The pillow drifted overhead and the contrast of its white surface became consumed by the blackness as it disappeared into the abyss.
I laid there quietly on my back for a long time and waited for the next thing to happen, but the next thing never came. Eventually, exhaustion overcame fear, eyelids closed over dry eyes and I drifted back into sleep. By mid-morning the next day, I had successfully convinced myself that this had only been a dream. The one disparity in my theory was the pillow that was still absent from the head of my bed. I remember asking my mom if she had seen it, to which she replied, �No� but I�m sure it�s around here somewhere�. To my recollection it was never found.

This could easily be called my �haunted house� story, or it could be put off to some hazy memory of a childhood overactive imagination, but the most unusual and eerie part of this story is not what occurred on this night, but the events that have followed ever since. I have had at least one such occurrence in almost every house I have lived in:

Homedale Dr.- Told my parents I heard �footprints� around my bed at night.
Wilmington Ct. - Had a dream that someone was calling my name. Opened my eyes to hear it called out one last time. Everyone else in the house was asleep.
Lischey Dr. - Everyone agreed that this was an exceptionally creepy house. It was built in 1803 and came complete with the original family plot next to the driveway. One night while sleeping in this house, I had the same sense of vulnerability I had had as a child. It became equally as overwhelming, and when it had reached the pinnacle of sensation, I knew that something was about to happen. Suddenly, the bedroom light overhead came on by itself causing me to scream and, subsequently, Kristy to almost go into cardiac arrest.
Fairwin Ave. � Kristy�s brother, Steven, helped us move into this house. We had unpacked, plugged a few things in, and were calling it a night over a couple of beers. Steven looked at me and said, �You know, this house has a much better vibe than the last one (Lischey).� Just then the answering machine that was six feet away came on and played-back our outgoing message. Our phone service was not yet turned on, so it couldn't have been caused by an incoming call.
Brookmeadow Ct. � This was a brand new house, but the strangest things happened here. The smoke alarms would go off in each room, one after the other, but only for about one second each. The doorbell would ring randomly. We would go to answer the door and there would be no one. We assumed this was a practical joker so we left the door opened and watched through the glass storm-door. It was only a matter of minutes before the doorbell rang again. We were both watching (Kristy and I)� and still � not a visible soul.

We haven�t had too many strange occurrences in the new house, or really any since the kids have come along.

�Last night I woke up in the middle of the night and heard Lucas crying. I dragged myself out of bed, went up to his room, and stuck my head in the door to see what was the matter. �I think I had a bad dream,� He said. I sat next to him on the bed, gathered him up, and reassured him that everything would be ok. �Daddy?� he said quietly as he pulled himself up close to my ear. He whispered, �Have you seen my pillow?�

Thu, 10 Mar 2011 11:09:38 -0700

My Resume

Thu, 10 Mar 2011 10:44:06 -0700

http://alanjohnstone.com/Resume

Web Pages

Thu, 10 Mar 2011 10:07:42 -0700

http://alanjohnstone.com/whosleft
http://alanjohnstone.com/Recycle
http://alanjohnstone.com/actorbios
http://alanjohnstone.com/bookclub

PHP Project

Thu, 10 Mar 2011 10:03:45 -0700

http://alanjohnstone.com/myproject

I created this page (linked above) for a class project. The assignment required learners to develop a PHP-based shopping cart site with a MySQL back-end from scratch. I used Notepad++ to develop the PHP pages and MySQLAdmin to develop the database. This isn't fancy by any means, but it shows what you can do with just a text editor and a little bit of knowledge.
**Note that there is no checkout button because I don't really have the stuff to sell!

Narrows of the Harpeth

Tue, 4 Jul 2006 09:02:00 -0700

In Tennessee, the best way to alleviate the muggy heat of August is to jump into the nearest body of water. My friend, Steve, and I made plans to do just that in August of 1998. I am admittedly not much of an outdoorsman and had to be pressured a bit to agree to go inner tubing. The idea was intriguing, but fear of the unknown usually cripples me in such situations. After I reluctantly agreed, we piled into the car and headed up the Clarksville Highway towards the Harpeth River. I remember trying hard not to let my apprehension show during the twenty-minute trip, but I�m sure it did.
The plan was to find �The Narrows�, a remote area known for its lazy rapids, and beautiful white limestone bluffs. We twisted and turned down the one-lane dirt road until we spotted a place to park right at the mouth of the rapids. Steve jumped out of the car and immediately started getting our tubes ready for the trip. �Are you sure we can make it all the way around and back home by five?� I asked. �Don�t worry, dude� he replied, �I�ll have you home in plenty of time for your date. The river horseshoes around in about a mile, and�ll bring us back within walking distance of here.� I can�t say I had much faith in Steve�s navigational skills, but I complied anyway. It was only 9:00am, and I was pretty sure we could make it back in time for my first date with Melissa.
We made our way down the hard dirt path to the bank. The rushing waters and majestic rock walls were more friendly and inviting than I had envisioned. We wasted no time and jumped right in.
The river immediately pulled us in and directed us swiftly with the current. I recall being overcome with a sense of breezy relaxation, and decided to give in to the will of the river. I kicked back in my inner tube, closed my eyes, and let the cool waters rush on below me.
Minutes seemed like seconds as I floated and dreamed about the possibilities that could occur that night with the angelic and beautiful Melissa Jenson. My thoughts and dreams swirled on and on with the rhythm of the current. When I finally opened my eyes, I realized that the running river had slowed to a crawl, and then to a complete stop. Steve was, apparently, waking up to the same discovery. The scene in front of us more resembled a swamp than a river. The water had taken on the consistency of chocolate milk and, in the distance, I could see a thin layer of green algae growing on the surface. � What do we do now?� I asked. �We gotta be close to the hook.� He replied, � Lets keep moving forward. I�m sure the river will pick up soon anyway.�
Ahead of us, the view was bleak. On the right bank, thick brush and briars twisted to the surface as if attempting to retreat to the shores. On the left was a jagged bluff that jutted up from the water and loomed fifteen feet over our heads. There was no way out of the water. The only choices we had were to move back upstream or downstream. I agreed with Steve, and we opted for the latter.
Trepidation filled my heart as we paddled on through the mucky, stagnant water. I tried to refrain from thinking about what was lurking beneath the surface, just inches from my body. We pushed on until our arms and legs became weary and our heads swooned with concerned anticipation. The landscape didn�t change. Out of frustration, Steve decide to ditch his inner �tube, and swim ahead to see what fate had in store for us. He rolled off his tube expecting to tread in the deep waters but, instead, his feet sunk into the muddy bottom. He stood up and laughed hysterically, exclaiming, � This water�s only four feet deep!� With this brilliant discovery, we decided to walk the riverbed and push our floats in front of us.
Time seemed to stand still as we forged on. Twenty minutes turned into an hour, an hour turned into two hours, and on and on. I could tell that it was getting close to noon. The sun was directly overhead burning the flesh on the back of my neck and the early pangs of hunger were beginning to develop in my stomach. I can recall feeling my feet softening and succumbing to the nature of the surrounding water. That was about the time I discovered the first leach. It was the first of many for both of us and became a constant source of mental, emotional, and physical drain. At that point, I remember thinking to myself; �This could not get any worse�.
The first clouds didn�t phase us; in fact, we welcomed the relief from the relentless sun. The first bit of rain didn�t bother us much either. We were already wet, and becoming wetter was not only the least of our worries, but impossible. Our concerns began when the skies darkened and we heard the first clap of thunder and saw the first bolt of lightning. Our surroundings had still not changed, and there was still no escape from the water. We had become nothing more than floating lightening rods, and we knew it. For the first time, I could see fear in Steve�s eyes.
The rain became a storm, and then a deluge. I could barely see Steve who was only a couple of feet ahead of me. I remember the sound, like continuous applause, as the racing droplets dented the surface of the liquid surrounding us. Suddenly, through the noise, I could here Steve screaming, � Over here! Over here!� I rubbed the rain from my eyes, and peered in Steve�s direction. Just ahead on the right shore, was what appeared to be a clearing. We made our way over to the bank and found the clearing was, in fact, a cornfield. With a sigh of relief, we crawled out of the water and lay on the bank in the rain, happy to be out of the river at last.
The skies finally began to clear, and we started on our way through the dead stalks of corn. Sharp broken cornstalks cut into our bare feet like razors. We wandered forward trying to avoid the worst parts of the terrain. We had no idea where we were and no clue which direction we were going. It was getting close to dusk, and we needed to find our way back to civilization soon. I continued to lurch forward and began to feel tears well up in my eyes, not because of the pain, but because of the frustration and the feeling of helplessness brought on by all the events of the day. Just then, a light caught the corner of my eye. Steve saw it too and we both gave a sigh of relief knowing that a road was just ahead.
When we reached the road, an old, familiar friend greeted us. We had somehow stumbled out onto the very winding dirt road that we had traveled in on. As I recall, the one-mile hike back to the car was a slow and arduous one. Our bodies were beaten and our feet were cut and bloodied, but there was a sense of relief in the air between us.
I hadn�t thought about Melissa and our date for several hours. Somehow, self-preservation had consumed my thoughts and allowed little room for anything else. I arrived home at 9:00pm, and made a mad dash to the telephone. I dialed the number and the phone on the other end rang once, then twice then a soft voice broke in from across the line, �Hello?�. My response, � Hello Mel-?� was all I had time to get out before I heard the �click� from the other end. That was the end of our conversation, as well as our relationship.
I saw Melissa Jenson recently at a party. I didn�t approach her. She had been drinking and was trying very hard to be the life of the party. Her boyfriend cowered behind her looking haggard and mentally beaten. I glanced over at my lovely wife and had to smile. I remember feeling lucky; knowing that fate had been on my side.