When all the world came crashing down

IN this Era of New Things, nothing is simultaneously more valuable or more maddening than the computer. Just a few days ago, the system crashed at United Airlines and turned a fairly efficient operation into chaos.

Televised scenes showed the LAX lobby and its outside areas mobbed with passengers awaiting flights to every part of the world, stopped by a glitch somewhere in cyberspace.

Because it was a diversified crowd of angry people, United was probably being cursed in more languages than one. In some ways, I guess, it was a moment of a world in tune, linked by a series of common epithets directed at a common failure.

My computer crashed on the same day, and although it didn’t delay flights to exotic climes, it similarly caused me to employ language I avoid using in the company of children, nuns and clean old ladies.

It began with an e-mail from our systems people at the L.A. by god Times. The memo said, “The company providing toll-free ISP and remote pipes dial-up access to The Times will file for bankruptcy Thursday, Dec. 29. We understand you have used one of these dialers in the last 90 days.” It went on from there.

My policy is to ignore that which I do not understand. I didn’t know what either a toll-free ISP or remote pipes dial-up access was, so I put the memo aside. I felt that somehow it would work itself out without my doing anything. It’s the rationale I apply to maintaining a stable marriage.

But then sometime around Dec. 29, it stopped working. But that was OK, because I also have Charter, which is a high-speed system that operates through cable. I was happy until, for reasons I also do not understand, it stopped working too. That was still OK because I also have Juno.com ... until, suddenly, Juno wasn’t working all that well either. I began to panic.

I picked up the telephone to call for help and, great God, the phone line was dead! It was as though my world was suddenly in some sort of apocalyptic meltdown. Two computer systems kaput, one slowed to a crawl and then Verizon lets me down.

I have three telephone lines into the house, and the one that failed is the line I use for my computer. It dies every time it rains. A repairman comes out, climbs a pole or tinkers with a box and the dial tone comes through like the laughter of happy children. But I couldn’t wait for Verizon, so I began plugging and unplugging lines: the home line to the computer and the fax line to the home phone, or something like that.

Then I called Charter. They said it was my fault. So I summoned a $100-an-hour expert to come to the house. He said the same thing and went to work. Meanwhile, I used the fax line to telephone our Times experts to fix my ISP or my remote pipes. Whatever. One expert took me so far and handed me off to another. No. 2 did some checking and called back with simple instructions. I followed them with the rote efficiency of a circus monkey that is trained to do exactly as he is told without the slightest variation.

Voila, I had my ISP and my remote pipes back, allowing me reentry into the newspaper’s circuitry. And then the expert at our home managed to get cable working again. Even Juno seemed more cooperative. The telephone line that normally connects to my computer is still down, but I am assured that help is on the way. Meanwhile, I still have everything cross-connected throughout my writing room and it will probably stay that way forever. I’ll never be able to figure out what re-plugs into what. True to my philosophy, I’ll do nothing.

I comforted myself with the knowledge that at least I had my computer back, thus allowing me contact with the world through the magic of, well, electronic things that fly through space. So I sat down with my good friend the Topanga Troll to watch USC boot Texas back to Austin, sipping a little wine and growing gradually distressed as our wonder team dissolved before my very eyes.

Although I do not consider it equal in defeats to the sacking of Rome, the USC loss was disappointing. I sat stunned as television revealed postgame scenes of women crying, dogs howling, babies wailing and groups of Trojan alumni contemplating mass suicide. Grief counselors specializing in sports losses were working through the night.

I should have known the day would turn out that way, given the other problems in my life. One would think that the Creative Designer would have at least allowed us one more touchdown. Could that hurt? I went to bed that terrible night and dreamed that the Designer had turned Vince Young into a lizard in the third quarter and SC had thereby won by 38 points. After that, I slept like a baby.

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Al Martinez’s column appears Mondays and Fridays. He can be reached at al.martinez@latimes.com.