I’m not sure how he ran across it, but my dad saw my name on a discussion and vote tally to create the newsgroup comp.lang.perl.moderated. He also asked if I knew there was a writer named Michael Armstrong. According to amazon.com he — Michael Armstrong, the writer — has published several business and management books. Until then, I hadn’t known about the writer, but the newsgroup discussion and vote actually was me.

I guess it’s not that surprising. It’s not like either part of my name is that uncommon. In fact, this kind of thing happens often enough that I’ve learned to have a little fun with it.

When the current CEO of AT&T, C. Michael Armstrong, was installed, I had a news clipping of the annoucement hanging at my desk for the longest time. People would read the article, look at me, read the article again. Most would laugh and offer their congratulations. There were a few, shall we say, less bright people that would ask if it meant that I was the CEO of AT&T. Ummmm, no. Why would I be working as a technical writer and Web developer when being a CEO is more than a full time job?

I’ve heard nearly all the jokes about my last name. Most often it’s some wiseacre that asks, “Are you related to Jack Armstrong, the All American Boy?”

“Yes, in fact I am! Jack is my Great Uncle.”

They’d be dumbfounded. Sometimes they would ask if I knew about the radio show from the 40′s. “Why of course, it was about my ‘Uncle Jack!’” Yes, I know that the radio show was fiction, but Grandpa did have a brother named John and Jack is a nickname for John.

At that point they’d usually be wearing what I call the “dumbass face.” They were trying to be funny and, while they weren’t quite sure, the joke may actually be on them. Well, it was. If you know about the radio show, don’t you think that a guy with the same last name would know about it too?

There’s also Neil Armstrong, the astronaut. Again, I’d make him out to be my Great Uncle, this time because I liked the word play. “Absolutely! Great Uncle Neil is my Grandpa’s brother…Well, of course he was great for the reason you’re thinking too.” People could never tell if I was serious or pulling their leg. Guess.

My favorite though, was Louis Armstrong, the trumpet player — I’d claim he was my Grandfather. They’d look at me for the longest time trying to find something other than Scandinavian and European features in my face. Some of them never figured it out.

I was sure I’d made a mistake by coming to the party — I was too self-concious to dance or have a good time. I got sick of feeling sorry for myself and decided to join the fun. After a few strained attempts at conversation, I shrank back into the shadows, content to watch from a safe distance.

Looking across the room at the crush of bodies, I wonder… How I can feel so alone, so disconnected? Why is it so much easier for everyone else to get involved? Why can’t I just relax and enjoy myself?

I was completely lost in my thoughts when I felt as if someone was watching me. I looked up to find the most brilliant pair of green eyes watching from just a few feet away. She turned away, blushing, obviously wishing she hadn’t been caught.

She brushed past and I caught the faint smell of her perfume. She said something as she walked by, it sounded like she said “follow me,” but I couldn’t tell for sure. Had she really said anything at all, or was it just my imagination? By the time I turned around, she had dissappeared.

I eventually found her on the patio with her back turned to the door. This time it was my turn to watch. Although I’m sure she knew I was there, she didn’t turn around at first. Several minutes passed before she looked at me and smailed.

She said she wasn’t sure I would follow her, but was happy that I had. I replied that I was powerless to resist her beautiful eyes…so mysterious but at the same time familiar.

We made the usual small-talk and seemed to hit it off. We both hated these huge parties for the same reasons — too much noise, too many people and not enough intelligent conversation. We each preferred small groups over large, unruly crowds.

It was starting to get noisy as people started trickling onto the patio. The louder it got, the more quiet we became. Soon we both fell silent and just looked at the stars. Finally, I took her hand and suggested going for a walk.

We talked about anything and everything. The decline of civilization, politics, war, medicine, past lives, loves, triumphs and defeats. Two hours later we returned to find that the party was winding down and there were just a few stragglers.

Not wanting the night to end, we sat on the couch and continued talking. She leaned over and put her head on my shoulder and snuggled in to find a comfortable spot. It felt so right, almost like we had been together for years. I put my arm around her, drawing her even closer.

I’m not sure how long we sat, curled against one another, before we both fell asleep. When I woke up, she was gone. Only the slightest hint of her perfume remained.

I also found a note in my shirt pocket. It said, “Maybe parties aren’t so bad after all.” That was it. I never even got her name.

In March 1997 I, or rather my Web site, was mentioned in “Mpls./St. Paul Magazine.” It was a sidebar to a larger article titled Legends in Their Own Minds. The sidebar, or sub-article, read:

Self-Promoting on The Net Dar and Tom have created a Web page called, ingeniously, Dar & Tom’s Web World. After a quick look at “Tom’s Pet Peeves” (“people who drive too fast,” “long lines, especially at the grocery store”), we fixed ourselves a cup of very strong coffee and moved on. We love straightforward Bill’s Little Web Page: “Hello! My name is Bill and this is my Web site…. There are a couple examples of my music here now.” There’s also a photo of Bill, looking like a folksinger with a science degree. Emily has a born self-promoter’s confidence that whatever she has to offer is good enough. Even poetry. Baudelaire she’s not, but the Van Gogh she fitched from someplace are nice. Van Gogh… now theres a guy who could have used a Web page. Born too soon, he was reduced to slicing off his ear to get attention. CarolAnne describes herself as a “colorful” person and her life as “a harrowing stereotypical transgender existance.” Michael Armstrong of Brooklyn Park displays his résumé, which corroborates what we already suspected: He can create a Web page.

I realize they were trying to be snide, but admittedly the site wasn’t that special. I was doing Web design consulting and the site was built to reflect that fact. In early 1997 that meant more effort went into convincing someone they wanted a Web site than why you were better than any of the 5000 other designers out there.

I was thrilled simply because it was a first for me. Never before had I been mentioned, by name, in any large publication. I would not be daunted by their petty sarcasm.

Since then, my little corner of the internet has evolved . It has taken on a new name and a new address. It has even grown. I’ve dumped the consulting business and gone into personal publishing instead. The half-dozen pages extolling the virtues of having a web site have been replaced by an empire that is pages strong.

I’m sure it means my 15 minutes are shot, but hey, how many people get their name in print other than their obituary? At least I got to see mine.