It happened again. I was leading a media training session for a client, and someone brought up a pending news release. “If we can just spin the message the right way, we’ll get coverage,” the person said.

My howl of anguish could be heard for miles.

Granted, the speaker was not a PR pro, so a statement like this is an opportunity to educate. But I find it unsettling to think such education is still needed.

So let me say it once more: Public relations has nothing to do with spin. Indeed, spin has a synonym; that word is “lying.”

How depressing that the public relations field can’t seem to scrape this dirt from its boots. Every ethical professional eschews the term—and the behavior it conjures—yet it continues to dog their heels.

Sadly, there are the occasional PR practitioners who earn the unfortunate moniker “spin doctors,” individuals who are quick to twist facts, or even create them, to achieve their ends. In a 2011 article on PR ethics for the Institute for Public Relations, Jennifer Moyer asks a difficult question: “Is ethical public relations even possible? Are public relations professionals really ‘the invisible men who control our political debates and public opinion, twisting reality and protecting the powerful from scrutiny…’?”

Is ethical PR possible? I firmly believe the answer is “yes.” Not only is it possible, it's crucial. But it hinges on an unswerving commitment, both collectively and individually, to honesty, integrity and respect.

At RC&A, we’ve set forth our values, summarized in six words: “Act justly. Love mercy. Walk humbly.” Meeting that standard means rejecting anything that has to do with spin.

Incidentally, I searched “spin” on Wikipedia and found an entry devoted entirely to the term’s connotations within PR. Quite rightly, most references are not complimentary: “…disingenuous, deceptive and/or highly manipulative tactics.”

I was glad to see spin called what it really is. Even so, the fact that there’s a Wikipedia entry joining these two topics means the public relations field has much work to do. 

I volunteered for press operations at the 1984 Olympic Games at the behest of my best friend Dick, who worked in sports information at a private college. We signed on together, hoping that we’d be assigned to track and field. As distance runners, that was our ideal.

It was also everyone else’s.

That’s how we landed our second choice, swimming. I didn’t know much about the sport, so I spent a little time catching up on the names before heading to LA. I wound up enjoying the swimming events immensely. Still, it was sad that I wouldn’t get to experience the LA Memorial Coliseum, where track and field events would be taking place. Dick and I managed to visit briefly, walking outside its locked confines. But it just wasn’t the same.

And then we were invited to the “faux-pening ceremonies.”

Okay, that’s my term. The actual descriptor was the dress rehearsal. Getting a seat in the Coliseum for the real deal required a major cash outlay, far beyond the bank accounts of two college grads. But as the official opening ceremonies were incredibly complex, a dry run was in order, and the LAOOC graciously invited its volunteers to play a role. Most of us, including Dick and I, were spectators, but a few got to walk the track and infield as pretend athletes.

I was thrilled to stroll through the confines of the Coliseum, rich with athletic history going back to 1923. This wasn’t its first Olympics—it was a venue during the 1932 Games. In fact, the cauldron over the main entrance held the Olympic flame in ’32 as well as ’84, the first time a single cauldron was used more than once. The stadium seemed vast given its age, though actually it seated fewer people in 1984 (93,000) than it did in earlier years (when it was closer to 100,000).

The orchestra playing at the opening ceremonies numbered 800 (including 85 pianos). They began with an original score crafted by famed composter John Williams, he of Star Wars fame. (Trivia: Williams’ early work included scoring a far-less-successful science fiction franchise, TV’s Lost In Space.) Each nation was introduced individually, and volunteers marched along the track, waving the appropriate flags. At one point, we were asked to flash cards we’d received at the entrance, part of a stunt that was intended to display all the flags of the 140 participating nations—the first Olympic opening ceremonies to include audience participation.

This Olympics would also be hailed as the first to turn to a person of African descent to light the Olympic flame. During the actual opening ceremonies, that honor fell to former Olympian Rafer Johnson, who dutifully jogged up the long, steep stairs to reach the gas-fueled tail of the Olympic rings that would whip the flame of his torch to the towering cauldron. For the rehearsal, the carrying of the official Olympic flag was done by a handful of former Olympians, including Bruce Jenner, John Naber and Billy Mills.

There was a gospel choir—the first ever at an Olympic event—and  hundreds of participants on the infield launched an equal number of helium-filled balloons into the blue sky. These balloons trailed ribbons, each with the word “Welcome” in a language represented at the Games. During the actual event, some of these balloons fouled power lines and caused a brief outage. I heard a rumor, too, that one of the balloons released during the rehearsal was found in Florida days later.

There were fireworks at both the rehearsal and the actual ceremonies, and the latter would feature a man on a jetpack zipping over the Coliseum’s main entrance and landing on the infield.

Even though we didn’t attend the actual event, the “faux-pening ceremonies” were a treat. I felt like we’d gained a sneak peak at what the rest of the world would celebrate a few days later.

A few final thoughts as I wrap this series on my time at the 1984 Olympic Games:

• One of our fellow press operations volunteers at the swim venue was Herb Wildman, himself a former Olympian. He competed on the U.S. water polo teams in 1932—ironically, also in Los Angeles—and 1936 in Berlin. His team earned bronze in those first LA Games. Herb was a friendly and engaging man. I took the opportunity to interview him and, sometime later, wrote a story about his adventures. Sadly, I misplaced my clip of that article long ago. Herb passed away in 1989.
  

• The LAOOC was generous with its praise and appreciation of the 29,000 people who volunteered during the Games. One of the most cherished thank-yous we received were genuine bronze medals, the same size as Olympic hardware, in blue velvet-lined boxes. We also received signed certificates printed on card stock; I’ve kept mine in a frame and displayed it with my various awards received during my career.
  

• Before, during and after the Games, the thought that this was something special and historic was always in mind. The LAOOC create a directory of volunteers so we could stay in touch. At the 25th anniversary in 2009, a sizable percentage of those volunteers joined Peter Ueberroth at the Coliseum to remember that shared experience. 
  

While personal links may have drifted over the years, the memories remain precious—so much so that I attempted to volunteer again for Atlanta in 1996 and London in 2012. I failed both times; the ’96 Games would only accept Georgia residents as volunteers, and the London event involved a highly complicated series of hoop-jumping to get government permission. 

However, rumor has it that LA is thinking of throwing its hat into the ring for the 2024 Games. If true, I’ll be waving my hand once again, looking to relive one of the great moments in my life.

[Links to Part 1, Part 2 and Part 3]

Never before or since I have seen a news conference grow silent like that.

Every reporter in the room—scores of them from media outlets across the globe—stared at me. I had just learned a very hard, very embarrassing lesson about being prideful.

The events leading to that lesson began the previous night at the Pauley Pavilion on the campus of UCLA. American gymnast Mary Lou Retton was trailing Romanian Ecaterina Szabo in the all-around by a mere 0.15 point. Still, it would take a flawless performance by Retton in the vault or an abysmal failure by Szabo on the uneven bars to change the outcome.

Thus was the curtain lifted on one of the most remarkable moments in Olympic history.

Young Retton, just 16 years old and a pixie-ish 4-foot-9, took one last look at her coach, Romanian transplant Bela Karolyi, and launched herself down the runway toward the vault. She threw herself into her personalized take on the Tsukahara, a maneuver that entails a layout back flip with a double twist. She landed perfectly and froze, arms aloft, an enormous grin on her face. Then Retton started leaping about, hugging Karolyi and waving to the crowd, certain that she’d nailed it.

She did. Her score was a perfect 10.

Her second vault barely mattered in scoring, but it mattered to the joyful Retton. She repeated the amazing maneuver—and scored a second 10.

Mary Lou Retton was an overnight sensation, a shining example of how Americans could still fulfill their dreams. No wonder, then, that the news conference held the next day at the Main Press Center was jammed with journalists.

My friend Dick and I were there as well. As press operations volunteers, our credentials gave us access to news conferences. In addition to the many we attended at the swim venue, we managed to attend larger conferences featuring Retton and Karolyi, track and field giant Carl Lewis and distance runner Mary Decker (soon to be Mary Decker Slaney, having announced her engagement to British discus thrower Richard Slaney at the Olympic news conference).

This access was helpful. Both Dick and I were stringing for newspapers back home, so these conferences helped feed the beast. Dick’s assignment was the more rewarding and intense, filing daily reports for the Holland Sentinel with a Tandy computer and a modem so slow he could have mailed his stories faster. I was writing for a small weekly, the Portage Patriot, as well as my college paper, the Western Herald. (Although I’d finished my classes, graduation was still a month away.) I wrote my stories long-hand and dictated them over the phone.

The Retton story promised to be a highlight for both of us. We planted ourselves a few rows from the front and watched as the news conference began.

Before long, I grew puzzled by the softball questions most reporters were asking, like, “Mary Lou, how did you feel when you saw that 10 on the scoreboard?” and “Bela, when did you know she had the gold medal?”

I thought there was a deeper story to tell, how a 16-year-old girl who few Americans had ever heard of before last night was dealing with this sudden fame. Such adulation was wonderful and dangerous. It had destroyed many young lives in the past; how was she handling it now, and how would she deal with the pressures yet to come?

And why wasn’t anyone asking that question?

Finally, I looked at Dick. “I’m going to ask a question,” I whispered.

As a press operations volunteer, not a credentialed journalist, I wasn’t sure it was allowed. But I was going to do it anyway. After all, said my immature and prideful 22-year-old brain, hadn’t I won national attention for investigative reporting just months before? I’d helped expose a scheme in which universities were artificially inflating football attendance figures. I deserve to be here! I deserve to show these reporters how to be reporters!

I waltzed to the microphone, reporter’s notebook in hand, and waited my turn. It came at last. My big moment. Every reporter in the room watching me, waiting for me to bestow my journalistic wisdom upon them.

I had my question ready in my head: “Mary Lou, I imagine this is all a bit overwhelming. Days ago, you were largely unknown. Now, all that’s changed. How are you handling, and how will you keep handling, this attention, this idea that all of America wants to put you on a shelf in their homes?”

And that’s when God showed once again that He has a sense of humor.

Because the question that came out of my suddenly dry mouth went something like this: “So, um, I was wondering, um, before your gold medal, no one knew you. So how are you handling the fact that all of America would like to take you home?”

Silence. Complete, funereal silence.

I saw Retton hesitate, uncertain how to answer. I saw Karolyi’s face turn red with fury. I saw my right hand, pressing pen to notebook, tremble so much that little dark scratches appeared on the paper.

What I didn’t see was the reporter who leaned over to Dick and asked, “Who is THAT bozo?” To which my best friend, the guy who’d take a bullet for me, replied with a shrug and an expression that said, “I have no idea.”

God may be humorous, but He’s also merciful. My suffering was brief. With amazing wisdom for someone so young, Retton broke the silence by answering the question I intended to ask: “I love it. I intend to handle it well. I have to learn to live with it.”

I pretended to write down her response, nodded my thanks and slipped away, thoroughly humiliated.

I’d like to say I was never prideful again, but that would be lying. Still, it’s a lesson that’s stuck with me, even as I chuckle over it 30 years later. I hope Retton and Karolyi chuckle over it, too—or better yet, have forgotten it entirely.

Next time:  The Faux-pening Ceremonies and Final Memories

[Links to Part 1 and Part 2.]

There was no such thing as streaming video in 1984—no YouTube, no Instagram, no Internet or Web-like tools outside of the military or academia. If a reporter at the Olympics had to cover, say, weightlifting and swimming events occurring at the same time, he or she had to make a choice.

That’s where press operations came to the rescue.

After my brief and unhappy assignment in crowd control at the Olympic Swim Stadium, I landed the job I wanted most: Interview Note Taker, the same task as my friend Dick. I don’t recall what prompted the switch—maybe the French photographer lodged a complaint—but I was thrilled.

Here’s how it worked. After a medal event, the winners would gather in the press tent behind the stands. They sat at a long table while reporters and photographers congregated in front of them. To the side was a smaller table where three press operations volunteers would sit. Each was given a medal winner—one for gold, one for silver and one for bronze—and tasked with recording the quotes of that individual or team. (I’m reasonably sure we used tape recorders for accuracy, though I also took notes for backup.) When the press conference was over, the volunteer would quickly type up his or her person’s Q&A on an electric typewriter at the back of the tent, then use a fax machine to send the quotes to the Main Press Center in downtown LA. There the staff would make copies and put them on shelves, labeled by event. In that way, reporters had access to accurate quotes and results that they could include in their stories—even if they hadn’t attended the event.

This was the kind of thing I’d looked forward to doing at the Games. I was excited to think that the quotes I was typing up and faxing were helping journalists from around the world cover the Olympics. Whenever I visited the Main Press Center, I stopped by the large bank of shelves just to see copies of the Q&A documents I’d sent in previous days. That, along with writing for two newspapers back home, made me feel like a real Olympic journalist.

I wish I’d kept track of the swimmers whose quotes I gathered during the Games. Alas, I lacked that foresight. Still, I remember being in the press tent during many post-medal interviews as a note taker. Among the winners:

· Mary T. Meagher, who gained gold by setting an Olympic record in the 200-meter butterfly.

· Rowdy Gaines, earning three gold medals despite being older than 66 of his 67 competitors.

· Rick Carey, who nabbed gold in the 200-meter backstroke but was so disappointed in his performance that he hung his head during the medal ceremony and ignored the cheering crowd. The backlash was swift and ugly. Carey later apologized and went on to win two more golds.

· East Germany’s Michael Gross, nicknamed “The Albatross” because of his enormous arm stretch, who won the 100-meter butterfly with a world record in a field so fast that the top six finishers all set national records.

· Nancy Hogshead and Carrie Steinseifer, U.S. teammates who were the first-ever double gold medal winners in Olympic swimming history. They registered exactly the same time in the 100-meter freestyle.

· Steve Lundquist, credited his world record in the 100-meter breast stroke to inspiration and encouragement by his injured teammate, John Moffet.

· Zhou Jihong of China, a tiny (5-foot-1, 92 pounds) platform diver known for listening to piano concertos instead of rock music on her Walkman prior to dives;

· Bruce Hayes, who pulled off one of the most exciting finishes ever, with a back-and-forth in the anchor leg of the 4x100-meter freestyle against Michael Gross, earning the U.S. team a gold medal.

· Greg Louganis, whose life story is at least as powerful as his dual wins in springboard and platform diving—the first male to do so since 1928.

The reporters brought a mix of expertise. Some were familiar with the sport of swimming, others not so much. One that sticks in my mind is Craig Neff, a reporter for Sports Illustrated. I’d been reading his stuff ahead of the Games and was impressed—even more so when he took the time to counsel Dick and I on pursuing careers as journalists. He was 26 then, already a veteran of Olympics coverage, and has continued that work as recently as the London Games in 2012. I’ll always remember his kindness and encouragement.

The athletes also brought a mix of skill in dealing with journalists. Some gave thoughtful responses, even to the routine “How does it feel to win the gold?” kinds of questions. Others were clearly uneasy and kept their answers short, as if they were in a courtroom instead of a press tent. Carey, who took a bashing in the press for his near-tantrum after the 200-meter backstroke, had reason to feel uncomfortable until he offered an apology. His response to his 100-meter win, also well short of a world record, was more appreciative, and all was forgiven.

I recall a lot of questions had to do with how the swimmers prepared themselves for an event. Many talked about listening to upbeat music on their Walkman cassette players—iPods were 20 years away—or thinking about strategy, about their training, about how everything led to this moment.

And then there was Greg Louganis and his teddy bear.

Louganis was almost child-like in demeanor: quiet, quick with a smile, almost painfully shy. Not being a follower of diving, I didn’t know much about him, though most of us in press operations knew he was gay—something he would bravely recount a few years later. One thing that everyone knew in LA: He was an incredible diver.

Louganis fielded the usual “How do you prepare?” question and responded by reaching into his duffel bag to retrieve … a teddy bear.

“This is Gar,” he told the reporters. Gar was the one he hugged and spoke to before and after dives, when he wasn’t listening to Vangelis’ “Chariots of Fire” on his own Walkman.

It was a bit unorthodox, a bit unexpected, and I think Louganis stunned every person in that tent. And I’ve since decided that was his aim all along. Louganis wasn’t above shaking up the media just as he rattled his competitors.

I continued with my note-taking through the swimming and diving events, then on to synchronized swimming. The latter drew great ridicule from me at the time, but I later came to realize the intense training and physical ability it requires.

My horizons were being broadened in other ways, too. Soon I would firmly grasp the job of Olympic journalist—and experience what remains one of my most embarrassing moments.

Next Time:  How I Accidentally Propositioned an Olympic Champion

[Note: You can read part 1 here.]

My arrival at the ’84 Olympic Games preceded the opening ceremonies by about a week. In those final days, much of the work that needed doing at the USC swim venue was organizational—learning our jobs, helping put materials in place and so on.

That’s why, on my first day in press operations at the world’s premier sporting event, I was assembling shelves.

I didn’t mind, actually. Back home, I worked as a clerk in a hospital storeroom; I was used to the occasional “special project” during slow times. And while I didn’t realize it then, this was a lesson in the unspoken reality of public relations: There’s far more grind than glamour in PR.

What worried me more was my job title. I was designated a Messenger, which sounded suspiciously like “Go-fer.” My colleague Dick, on the other hand, was designated an Interview Note Taker. We also had differing uniforms—Dick wore a golf-style collared shirt, while I was clad in a white-and-green T-shirt. I didn’t resent my best friend landing a better gig, but I wasn’t keen on managing shelves for three weeks.

Still, shelving was the task at hand, and I would pursue it with all devotion.

The guts of the metal shelves were piled in the main press tent behind the stands at the McDonald’s Olympic Swim Stadium. This was one of the few competition sites specifically built for the ’84 Games. To avoid the financial catastrophes of past Olympics, organizer Peter Ueberroth was determined to use existing venues throughout Southern California. The swim venue—a 50x25-meter pool and a 25x25-yard diving well—was built on the campus of the University of Southern California with major funding from McDonald’s Corporation. USC continues to use the facility, which was renovated and reopened this year as the Uytengsu Aquatics Center.

The press tent would serve as the interview site after swim events. Reporters and photographers would gather, and medal winners would sit at a table at one end of the tent. The shelves would provide background materials and results for the journalists.

Dick stopped by the tent while I was building shelves, and we gabbed as I kept working. I reached for one of the last pieces of gray metal, and as I lifted it from the ground I saw something large and black lurch near my fingers. Instinctively, I dropped the metal with a clatter and shout. Scrambling from what had been its hiding place was an ebony spider. It seemed enormous at the time, but I suspect that was the image summoned by a startled mind.

I quickly dispatched the arachnid with a well-placed shoe. I studied its remains for a moment; I’d never seen this type of spider before, but I had a sneaking suspicion I knew what it was. Taking the tip of my shoe, I flipped it onto its back.

On its abdomen gleamed a bright red hourglass shape.

I looked up at Dick. “It’s a black widow! It nearly bit me!”

Dick promptly scooted off to the break room, returning with two cups of ice-cold water and a toast to my dodge from death (or, more precisely, a very painful spider bite).

Preparations continued unabated. (And dang, those shelves looked great!) Swimming competition began on July 29, and it was on that day my fears about my job were confirmed.

During swim events, journalists had two places they could go: in the designated stands, or in a shaded area beneath the stands along the length of the pool. The latter was for photojournalists. They could move along with the athletes, taking pictures at any point during a heat or medal round. But with so many photographers attending, there was constant jostling in the photo area—not exactly conducive to good shots. As a result, a few photographers tried to sneak into the stands with the paying spectators. This annoyed a lot of people who plunked down big bucks to watch the contest.

And thus came to me that most important role at the Olympic Games: kicking photographers out of the stands.

I had some issues with this assignment. For one, I was a distance runner and weighed about 135 pounds—hardly the kind of guy to play bouncer. Second, I wasn’t the most assertive person, so I doubted these guys would pay attention to me. And finally, this wasn’t what I’d expected press operations to entail.

But hey, I’d signed up for this. I owed it to the LAOOC and all the athletes who’d worked so hard to be there.

So I sighed and headed for the stands. 

Almost immediately, another volunteer on crowd control trotted over. She looked exasperated. “There’s some French photographer getting in people’s way. I told him to leave. He won’t listen to me.”

I saw the guy in question. He would stand, take a few pictures, then sit down again. But he wasn’t fooling anyone, least of all the people behind him. I headed over.

“Excuse me,” I said, trying to find a balance between firmness and politeness. “You can’t take pictures up here. You’re getting in people’s way. Photographers are supposed to be in the area over there.” I waved at the designated spot on the other side of the pool.

He smiled and responded in barely discernible English. “But see, all ze people, eez hard to take picture.”

I did feel sorry for him and his colleagues. I could see the photojournalists packed like sardines under that gaudy tarp, with only a narrow opening for snapping pictures. But that wasn’t a problem I could solve.

“I understand that, and I’m sorry. But you can’t stay here.”

Still smiling, albeit falsely, he mumbled something in French and left the stands. I breathed a prayer of thanks.

But my satisfaction proved short-lived. Within an hour, he was back. The same co-worker noticed him, but this time she brought the task directly to me. Annoyed by his brazenness and by an assignment I didn’t want, I abandoned any attempt at being polite.

“Look, I told you before you can’t be up here. You can leave the stands now, or I can call Security. They’ll throw you out of the stands AND out of the stadium!”

Still forcing the smile on his face, the photographer gathered up his gear. But he was determined to have the last word. Before he headed for the exit, he turned to me, wagged his finger in my face and made a loud announcement in front of several hundred spectators:

“You! You, I no love!”

And then he stormed off.

One wonders what the spectators were thinking….

Fortunately, I had little time to mourn his lost affection. Within a couple of days, my job changed to one that would expose me to some of the greatest swimmers in Olympic history.

Next time:  Gold Medals and Teddy Bears

Seated at a desk beneath rows of multicolored flags, the woman stared at me, white-faced. The air was polar-vortex cold, yet I’m sure I saw a trickle of sweat snake down her neck.

“You mean,” she said, sotto voce, “you guys aren’t athletes?”

I nearly lost my temper. “NO! We’re not athletes! That’s what I’ve been saying!”

The woman glanced around the large bubble building, uncertain about her next move. She settled on stating the obvious.

“You’re not supposed to be in here. You could have been terrorists!”

A security guard appeared. My friend Dick and I were hustled off to a small meeting room and left alone. The door slammed shut; it wasn’t locked, but there was no doubt we were expected to remain.

Dick fretted. “You think we’re in trouble?”

I should have been worried, too. Instead, I was just angry.

This wasn’t how I’d expected the adventure to begin. Fresh out of college, Dick and I had come to Los Angeles as press operations volunteers supporting the 1984 Olympic Games. For three weeks, we would work with staff, competitors and journalists from around the world on one of the greatest Olympics in history.

Thirty years later, I’m reflecting on that experience. There was something special about the 23rd Olympiad, something that, in my view, hasn’t been recaptured in any of the Games since. There was a mix of splendor and simplicity that made it uniquely American—and uniquely in the spirit of the Olympics as first envisioned. Glorious moments from those Games still live in our consciousness, be they jubilant (Mary Lou Retton’s joyful performance in the vault) or tragic (Mary Decker’s tumble off the heel of Zola Budd in the 3,000 meters).

But for the two guys cooling their heels in the reception center on that toasty July day in 1984, things weren’t off to a good start.

For most of the past hour, we’d been bounced to and fro within the confines of Los Angeles International Airport. Every few minutes, we were ushered to a new person—one of a cast of colorfully garbed volunteers and security people. I would explain that we were press operations staff trying to get to the Olympic swim venue. And every one of these confused individuals would ask the same question: “Are you athletes?”

“No. Like I said, we’re press operations volunteers. We’re assigned to the swim venue.”

“Oh. Well, where are your security badges?”

Each time, I would swallow my exasperation and explain that we’d just arrived from Michigan, so it wasn’t possible for us to have received security badges yet. In fact, we knew that would be our first task once we reported to the swim venue at USC. But we had to get there first. Our paperwork said to ask any of the people staffing the Olympic information booths at LAX.

That was when our troubles began. The staffers at the booths knew where to direct arriving athletes but were clueless on how to guide the thousands of volunteers streaming into the City of Angels.

By the time we were led onto the tarmac toward the bubble structure quivering in the hot breeze—and surrounded by a phalanx of armed security men—I was sure this wasn’t going to end well. We strolled through a metal detector, endured a thorough sweep by handheld units, and were escorted into the building.

With memories of the massacre at the ’72 Munich Games still fresh, the Los Angeles Olympic Organizing Committee channeled great energy and resources into assuring a secure event. The security force was huge, response plans were exacting, and access to venues and facilities was tightly restricted.

That is, until two guys from Michigan, without any credentials, managed to waltz into the official reception center for international athletes at LAX.

We didn’t wait in the meeting room for long. The door opened, and a professionally dressed woman sailed in. I could see she was at least as angry as I was, but she kept it in check. Instead, she got right to business.

“First, I want to tell you guys that you’re not in trouble. But someone sure as hell is!”

My anger dissipated. Here was someone who had it figured out. Nonetheless, she asked me to repeat our story for the record. I explained how we went to an information booth as our paperwork instructed, how that prompted phone calls and long walks to various LAOOC staffers and volunteers, each of whom heard me explain our mission, and culminating in a security escort to the reception center. I assured her we never presented ourselves as athletes. Indeed, I'd gone to great lengths to insist that we weren't.

Her stare was watchful, measured, and I knew she was evaluating both my story and my credibility. Fortunately, both met muster. She apologized for the confusion and arranged for someone to drive us to the swim venue. She also promised there would be no further security breaches of this sort. I’ve no doubt she kept that vow.

The story doesn’t end there. Our driver was polite but ill-informed. It would be hours before we found the security center, got our badges and reported for duty at the USC pool—long after our fellow volunteers had received their orientation. Lucky for us, our supervisor was sympathetic to our little security brouhaha. He provided an abridged orientation, got our uniforms, gave us a quick tour of the Main Press Center at the LA Convention Center, and dropped us off at Occidental College, where we would stay in the dorms.

By the time we crashed that night, we’d been awake for more than 24 hours.

The next day, I would don the dubious colors of the ’84 Olympics and begin one of the greatest adventures of my life as a press operations volunteer, watching history unfold at poolside in the swim venue and at other locations across the city.

But first, there was this black widow spider….

Next time: “You! You, I no love!”

My mornings typically start like this: A cup of coffee, time for prayer and meditation, a scan of news headlines and favorite websites, then a workout before breakfast.

Which of those activities, do you suppose, is the most depressing?

Surprisingly, it’s the period spent online. Studies suggest that people who spend a lot of time consuming social media may be more prone to moderate or severe depression.  Likewise, there’s evidence that consuming too much news and spending too much time at a computer all seem connected to increased depression.

Some argue it isn’t that simple, that depression itself might prompt people to spend hours surfing the Web or posting on Facebook, rather than the other way around.

I’m not a psychologist, so I’m reluctant to speak definitively either way. But as someone who understands communication, I suspect that the “too much time online” crowd may be onto something.

The Internet is a boon to presenting and consuming information. Facebook, Twitter, Instagram and the vast array of other digital platforms offer a quick and easy way to connect with people at a certain level. But we shouldn’t fool ourselves into thinking that having hundreds of Facebook friends makes us “social.” And make no mistake: As humans, we’re social creatures. We need to interact with other humans—hear their voices, see their expressions, read their body language, engage in real-time dialogue.

The isolated aspect of the online world—me and a computer screen—nurtures a misguided view of what the platform provides. It’s tempting to believe I stand upon a mountaintop, with the world spread out before us, eager to hear and embrace what I have to say. And then it becomes frighteningly easy to dismiss or even bash those who disagree.

That’s why I continue to believe that the most effective form of communication is done in person. Digital tools have a crucial role, but true two-way interaction involves people in the same space.

As communicators, our plans and strategies must encompass this broader view. Maybe then we’ll spend a lot less time in a blue, isolated, hyper-critical mindset and a lot more time relating to one another.

A recent dust-up involving social media and the World Cup is yet another lesson in how much care is needed when wading through the interwebs.

The stumble involved Delta Airlines and the U.S. team's win over the African nation of Ghana. Soccer remains something of a distant and rarely seen cousin among American professional sports, so its fans were understandably excited about this victory on the international stage. The social media team at Delta put up a congratulatory message on Twitter with the U.S. represented by a sunrise silhouette of the Statue of Liberty and Ghana represented by a sunrise silhouette of a giraffe.

Just one problem: there are no giraffes in Ghana.

The Internet promptly howled with indignation. Delta was blasted for its ignorance of African fauna and was even accused of racism. A PR site I visit regularly entertained a lively discussion, with opinions ranging from "oops" to suggestions that the staffer to be fired. 

(Delta later offered an apology--which, sadly for them, included a typo that only added to the brouhaha.)

No doubt this was an honest mistake. Some unfortunate staffer wanted a simple pair of images that represented the opposing countries, found two that were somewhat similar in composition, and plowed ahead without adequate thought or diligence. A rookie error, yes, but hardly worth the public outcry it prompted. 

(I can't help wondering how many of these self-righteous critics can find Ghana on a map....)

Even so, it's a reminder that social media is like a chainsaw. It's a wonderful and powerful tool that needs to be handled with great care, skill and respect. A giraffe gaffe is a minor kerfuffle and should be viewed that way; the broader lesson of diligence, accuracy and sensitivity in every social media encounter is one we should all take to heart.