The Wichita Lineman Retires

Many of my readers (ok, two of my readers) have asked me about the months-long lull in blog posts. I started this blog in 2008, right at the height of post-college disillusionment and the recession, when confidence (mine, everyone else's) was at an all time low. Consequently, the theme of nearly all of my posts was my own (hopefully hilarious) ineptitude. Having finally realized that self depreciating has been a long train to nowhere I want to be, I feel like it is time to discontinue writing in a blog about "my tenuous grip on reality." As that grip on reality becomes less tenuous, sometimes I'll write here.

Communication Breakdown

Had I known that Arcata was the Bermuda Triangle of phone service, perhaps I would not have been so nonchalant about embarking on a long-distance relationship. I thought, "People make this work all the time." But "people," have reliable ways of communicating, and we, at the moment, do not. It's only been 1 week, but now that all the oxytocin seems to have drained from my body, I'm already learning a lot about the hideous, murky depths of my own co-dependence. LAN line? Carrier pigeon? Watching bootlegs of Pippin on youtube and eating icecream for dinner and just keeping my mind off of it? I may have a hard row to ho.

Medicine Object and Other Practical Uses for Sleeping Bags

I left the sleeping bag from my childhood in NY when I visited Cassie there in 2007, and she dragged it with her to the Graham Ave apartment where it stays (though she didn't). During my visit in early June, David confirmed that it's still there. He didn't offer it to me, and I didn't ask for it back. I took this as a mutual understanding about the absurd superstition surrounding it-- that it's supposed to be there, somehow-- like I left it in 2007 so that he could sleep in it in 2009 and I could ask about it in 2012, and that perhaps its full power has not yet been revealed to us. Any disturbance of its sacred placement might drastically alter 2014. Or maybe they use the sleeping bag sometimes. Or maybe I just didn't want to take it on the plane. Or maybe I've read one too many novels about Beverly Hills art dealers flying up to Canada to become the unwitting apprentice of an elderly shaman. But because he didn't offer, because I didn't ask, because I'm hell bent on observing some quasi religious "feeling" I have, and most importantly, because I have a camping trip coming up, James and I went to Big 5 to get a new sleeping bag. Its brown and lined with navy blue and white plaid flannel and that's all I have to say about it, so far.

Brain Withering on The Vine at Summer Job

That period of unemployment was all too brief. I write to you from the trenches at my latest temp station, where I have very little to do and almost zero human contact. Some of my tasks, such as unstapling stacks of surveys for two straight weeks alone in a room, might just as easily be performed by a student worker, prisoners in deep isolation, or a jar of mayonnaise hooked up to a keyboard. This has been good practice for when James leaves for Humboldt State at the end of the month-- I've already learned how horrible it feels to be alone, so it should be a smooth transition from alone 8 hours a day to alone 24 hours a day. I've jumped headfirst into all my lonely-time activities, with positive results. Constantly streaming NPR at work just to hear human voices has made me aware of current events for possibly the first time. I now have time to catch up with long lost friends via g-chat and facebook-- so great to finally be back in touch with the weird girl from high school and the guy who refused to dance with me at the 8th grade cotillion! Best of all, since my tasks require no brain power, I can use all that otherwise unstimulated gray matter to dream up situations that are more appealing. Meanwhile, my pleasant phone demeanor and uncanny tolerance for customer service are atrophying from disuse. Can't wait to be on to the next. Now accepting: advice.

Ever Shifting Tides

If you've been following this blog, you'll notice a pattern of unemployment beginning in May and ending in September for the last 3 years or so. This summer is no different. I recently had to leave the only job I've ever loved, but such is the nature of the UC Davis Temp Pool, with its ever shifting tides. Initially, temping seemed ideal because I've hated every job that came before this one, and I thought "Cool, I'll only be there a finite amount of time." I had not counted on liking the job, and did not, in fact, know it was possible. Also, I had planned to follow my boyfriend to his next destination of choice-- another easy-to-follow life pattern if you'd been following the blog. I am going to stay. Or, at least, I am not going to "go with." I am going to spend this time apart "focusing on me." I'm already nauseated from the terror.

Seeing Attle

At a recent family gathering, my uncle Ron asked me what I'd been up to lately. "Well, I went to Seattle," I replied.
My grandpa chimed in, "How is Attle? You said you went to see him." Like Papa, many of you (ok, just one of you) are (is) clamoring for the details surrounding my trip to see Attle. As the dutiful blogger I am, I shall oblige.

It should be mentioned that the entire reason for this trip to the Pacific Northwest involved the 2+ years of gentle prodding from Amanda. Click on her name for a more accurate view of Seattle life, including pictures. When my tax return landed in my bank account with a happy jingle jangle I thought it was high time to pay my friend of 16 years a visit in her adopted city.

It should also be mentioned that night before my flight, I cut off all of James' luxurious curls like a wicked Delilah, then left, softly, while he slept, for the airport.

The flight passed without incident, and armed with a couple of detailed emails vis a vis smartphone from Amanda and my familiar leather weekend bag, I attempted to get myself to her apartment. She told me to take a cab, so of course instead I took light rail (which was pleasant) to downtown (which was not). Toothless people in wet fecal sweatpants lurched down the avenue; I guess all downtowns are the same. Wanting to end a conversation swiftly heading south with some kind of armed bus stop guard, I hopped on a bus that said "Queen Anne" but was, evidently, not the Queen Anne bus I wanted exactly because I had to get out and walk up some hills. "I told you to take cab," said Amanda. It was ok, because the bus was clean and and it seemed to run on the honor system, or at least the bus driver didn't make me pay because I didn't have exact change, and the hills were dotted with charming homes and greenery and coffee houses and through the parting clouds I could see the whole Sound and the Space Needle that Frasier lives in. It was like everything I liked about San Francisco with nothing that I didn't... so I guess like a big wet Berkeley.

Amanda took me on the grand tour, driving me through every neighborhood of note. She took me to places that she knew would appeal to me-- weekend antique markets, shops filled hand-made shoes and Portuguese leather doo-dads and little tucked away restaurants with walls of reclaimed driftwood, drinks last in vogue in the 1920s, and small plates of morsels so exquisite, so earthy, and so local, we didn't even know what they were. We had our waitress select menu items that fit within the parameters of both of our diets-- one vegetarian and one gluten free-- white girls on holiday!-- and admired the bearded gentlemen as they wafted by like peacocks in their lumberjack attire. "Ah" we mused, "ain't life grand?" Well, maybe we mused that. Maybe we were drunk and just spent 100 dollars. Later, as I strolled through the heavily forested University of Washington campus, having a pleasant Santa Cruz deja vu with the rain beading off of my borrowed REI jacket, I thought, "Maybe I can just get used to being wet all the time." Maybe.

Guest Bloggers

Many people who are better at the ol' internet game than I am will sometimes have a guest blogger, or will guest blog on a similarly popular friend's site. Are they friends IRL or just on the internet? Does it matter? Well I don't think my relative obscurity should force me to miss out on the fun of flaunting my friendships, both real and fake. Consider this an open call to anyone who wants to guest blog here at The Wichita Lineman. Of course, I have some deep seated control issues that ordinarily I wouldn't even acknowledge, and so you may choose from the topics I've generated:

-my boyfriend "diagnosed" me with Obsessive Compulsive Personality Disorder


Great! I anticipate your submissions.

Losin it

I think I've lost access to some of my "inner tools." For instance, what's become of my intuition, that inner voice that cuts through all the fat and rises bell-like above the din to provide clear guidance? Lately, I hear so many voices that they drown out whatever pathetic squeak is left of my intuition. I am unable to move forward with any impulses or ideas, because I've come to mistrust my own motives.
Previously, I have found that reflecting on my dreams was a useful tool in illuminating the basic hopes and fears I'd hide from myself in waking life. After awhile, I felt interpreting a dream was easy, and the symbolism nakedly obvious. But now my dreams have taken a strange and indecipherable turn. On a Sunday night I dreamt in grave detail of a man I'd never seen and on the following Wednesday, to my astonishment, he walked into the clinic where I work. I quietly, discreetly flipped out. Another night, I dreamt only one name over and over: Pena Branca. After doing the best I could with some truly horrific Alta Vista Babel Fish translations of Portuguese websites, I deduced that he was a Brazilian indian chief at the time of early Portuguese settlement, and possibly also a spiritual figure. The name could mean white sorrow, white rock, or white feather but means absolutely nothing to me. I don't understand why my subconscious now points me towards foreign wikipedia submissions and previously unknown UC Davis employees, but I'm finding this new mode less personally useful than the old days of bland-but-meaningful symbolism. Where's a good old gut feeling when I need it?

2/3/12 edit:
Of course, I could have just been thinking about this tumblr all night long, which, given the content, might make it an even more spiritual experience. or just a sign that the rampant internet use really is rotting my brain

Little Things

How many books have I read in hopes of learning, once and for all, how to find the zen in my everyday routine? Too many. How many times have I written or said aloud that it's "the little things in life I most enjoy."? Lies! Although, it would be worth my while to appreciate the everyday more, as "everyday" stretches dully before me like a road trip through Kansas. These days I might say, "I'm doing things that my coworkers like to do so that we can talk about it later, at work," or "I tried a new recipe and this one doesn't have yogurt," or "I started drinking a non caffeinated beverage that convincingly mimics the caffeinated beverage it is designed to replace." These conversation starters (enders?) are accurate reflections of the dullness that has spread through my life like a malignancy. My life has been boring for so long, I would think I might be used to it by now. Even when I look back on times that I considered to be exciting, like my freshman year at college, a good percentage of the so-called excitement came from pre-planned "antics" at the dining hall and getting to run errands without my mom. Things aren't actually bad. The trick is to recognize that boring can be good, and recognize it before I take a wrecking ball to all of my hard-won comforts in a misguided effort to pepper my life with "excitement." I know my own patterns well enough to know that after enough time has gone by, I'll look back on this time with bittersweet longing-- this time when I lamented my boredom. I'll think it was a time of simple pleasures--and isn't it the little things in life I most enjoy?

Dinner Tonight: Gateway to Eckhart Tolle Town

There have been times when negativity twisted me until I was doubled over in paroxysms of self hatred. Tonight is not one of those times, for tonight I made a quesadilla with the best bacon money can buy, white cheddar, and thinly sliced apples. I cooked the quesadilla in the glistening grease left by The Best Bacon Money Can Buy, then coated the whole thing in sweet jalapeno sauce with a loving, almost motherly hand. In cooking this meal, I have taken the first steps on a shamanic journey to higher consciousness, and finally have an inkling of the "divinity within" I've heard so much about.

The divinity within is sitting like a rock in my stomach.

Taking Initiative

Maybe soon I will do something with my life. I was just waiting until I got really, really pretty. Now my pimples are starting to get wrinkles; I can see that this day is not going to come.

Interdepartmental Romance

I get migraines. The brain of a migraineur is extremely sensitive to any differences in routine, and even small changes can trigger an attack. For instance, getting up an hour later than usual might trigger a migraine for some. Yesterday at work, an attractive patient asked me out. He wrote "lunch?" on one of his business cards and pushed it over the lip of my desk. I politely declined, and then blushed profusely for half an hour after he left. Usually, the kind of men who try to pick up on me are unwashed, plainly drunk, and trying to get a free ride on Amtrak. I was pretty tickled to garner interest from someone who was both physically attractive and obviously employed-- I am not accustomed. Too tickled I guess, for I got a migraine later that day. This incident points to a grim future. Can I look forward to becoming physically ill when good looking professionals look at me for longer than 30 seconds?

I'm not actually looking to change my current romance situation, but sometimes during the work day I daydream about an interdepartmental romance, like my coworker has. She put in her work order to have a nest of bees removed from the building and 3 years later there's a rock on her finger from the man who showed up to poison them. Daydreaming this way helps pass a time that is mostly spent talking about clearance forms, printing out clearance forms, searching for clearance forms, talking about clearance forms, and boiling the clearance forms into a lumpy, nutritionally void porridge which we then eat.

Key Largo

My Grandma Nina died in the summer of 2005. We all gathered at AJ Nicoletti Funeral Parlor on a white hot August day in the Sacramento Valley, and were milling around hopelessly whilst awaiting an official cue from the funeral director. Though muddled by grief, I was dimly aware of soft music playing. It was mainly indistinct, inoffensively bland piano, but somehow an instrumental version of that Bertie Higgins song "Key Largo" got into the rotation. I caught the attention of my cousin, thinking this was a funny oversight, and we had some laughter over the cheeziness of the lyrics (which I of course knew). What a stupid song-- a song I'd heard years before, sitting in my grandparents' kitchen while they read the paper, drank weak coffee, and listened to AM 1320, KCTC, Your Music and Memories Station. Then I started to cry.

This song came up on the side bar when I was browsing youtube for similarly stupid songs. Now I'm remembering my Grandma and playing back the funeral and the days surrounding it in my head like a movie. I get a certain sense of relief knowing that I can attach my grief forever to this song, and not The Pina Colada Song, which could have just as easily played in the funeral parlor without much notice.

Ficitional Name Available

As I child I didn't understand how it worked. Not only did I think it would be relatively simple to go from my stucco box in Sacramento to a glamorous world of evening gowns, butlers, and limousines, but I believed I was destined for it. Adulthood would somehow ignore my origins completely and transform me into a venomous, wealthy temptress with unrivaled beauty and a collection of jewels. In fourth grade, I thought up a name that would better suit my entrance into the Danielle Steele-ish world of dark sophistication in which I would surely move one day. It was Veronica Ludlow. Sadly, adulthood finds me downwardly mobile and looking exactly the same as I did as a child, but with a hook nose. Plus, the more I think about it, Veronica Ludlow is not so much a name for rich beauty as a weird girl at school. She's really nice but you never want to go over to her house because it smells like fish and all the furniture is covered in dog hair and all she wants to talk about are gnomes.

This name is now up for grabs. It might best be used by a children's author who needs a name for the protagonist in a story she's writing about a girl who helps a horse in distress.

Apartment Hunting Follies for the Unemployable and the Ludicrously Hairy

I'm considering going to Grad School, or at least lying about being a Grad Student so that landlords with the quiet apartments with washing machines will rent to me. I never thought of The Graduate Student as a pillar of respectability the way the Davis landlord does. When my thoughts turn to grad school, as it has been lately, it is out of a pit of desperation that these thoughts arise. I assume that actual grad students were similarly just one breakdown shy of sticking their heads in the oven but applied to a grad school instead-- unstable types-- not someone you want inhabiting your precious, cheap clapboard tinderbox Davis duplex. And yet, the hushed, reverential tone so obvious even in Craigslist ads with the "ideal for grad students and researchers" specification conjurs an image of a monkish figure, working in religious silence by the flickering light of an oil lamp. His face is beautiful and saintly, the ecstasy and the agony of his studies giving him strength of purpose and a strange glow from within like Charleton Heston in a biblical epic.


The rental offerings available to a couple comprised of one undergraduate and one unemployed whatever-I-am are predictably nonexistent. I keep thinking of that fable about the grasshopper who frittered away the summer with enjoyable frolicking while the ants spent every free moment storing food away for the winter. Then the ants get the satisfaction of saying " I told you so" as the grasshopper shivers in the cold of the winter, not a crumb to be found. Whatever. I hate that fable.

Tonight, in response to a craigslist ad for a pretty ideal sounding apartment, I unwittingly called a distant relation who I forgot rented properties in Davis. When she realized to whom she was speaking, she expressed some reluctance to show me the apartment for several reasons, the biggest one being my "heavily bearded" boyfriend might clog up the plumbing. As a concession, she suggested that he might wash his hair in some kind of laundry basin out back. I can't help but think that this conversation could have been avoided, if only I had a masters degree.

2007 Memories: Trysha

Three or four years ago I drew a hideous comic for my friend about an old, ugly prostitute named Trysha. It was very poorly drawn. Today I found some "notes" I'd made for future Trysha adventures and for the sake of the children I'm not going to draw them. Here they are:

Trysha meets a degenerate when she's coming out of Planned Parenthood, where the clinician turned her away as a lost cause. He pretends to be her daughter's ex boyfriend so he can get into her house and use the shower. He steals the VCR when Trysha falls asleep doing an improvised pole dance which she dubs "Night of the Iguana."

What follows is the an actual Trysha comic, which I share in the spirit of keeping the internet as the best forum to showcase bad choices.

Hypothetical Garage Sale

My parents have been talking a lot recently about cleaning out various storage areas, ie the garage, my entire bedroom, etc. I can't help but notice an at times hopeful, at times accusatory glance cast my way when they broach this topic. Granted, I admit to storing a fair amount of childhood detritus in their home, but all of my things are heirlooms and very, very tasteful. Why must I come home and start this process for them by throwing out my (still quite precious) belongings? Some of the things they seem to be having a hard time removing are ridiculous. Why wasn't the old toilet taken away after the installation of the new one? It's got its own special spot in the garage like it's a piece of arcane camping equipment. While I guess I've seen worse things at thrift stores, the idea of donating these burdensome, tasteless or useless items seems almost cruel. A garage sale is out of the question (think of us sitting there on the lawn in fold out chairs, the erstwhile family toilet mere feet away with "as is" sticker looking every bit like a pimple on the flush handle). Can you imagine the flyers?

GARAGE SALE! THIS SATURDAY! YOU DON'T WANT TO MISS...

-CANARY YELLOW RIBBED GARBAGE CAN! (standard size)
-BAG O' RAGS, PRE-OILED!
-PLASTIC NIGHTSTAND WITH WOOD GRAIN FINISH! (wood grain paper peeling off in spots, drawers rotten or broken)
-CERAMIC HUMINGBIRDS CANDLE CADDY- curious expressions suggest interest in votive!
-AROMATIC 30YO TOILET!
-HOME DECOR: POSTERS IN COLORED PLASTIC FRAMES! we never cared for them much- from drugstores
-METAL PALM TREES OUTDOOR WALL HANGING!
-PADS OF PAPER FEATURING AREA REALTORS!
-GRAY SYNTHETIC FOOTSTOOL WITH BRASS FEET! stained/sticky
-"EASY TIP" UNSTEADY PLANT STAND!
-ANTIQUE VINTAGE HAIR FRYER!

AND SO MUCH MORE!

Kiss of the Spider Woman: Toys (and Men) From My Childhood

I'm 80% sure I just fractured my pelvis due to some bicycle clumsiness. My first thought was "will this turn arthritic when I'm old?" my second thought was "have I damaged my internal organs?" and my third thought was, "what of those toys of yesteryear?" Since I foolishly chose not to COBRA my Kaiser coverage when I had the chance, I'm going to ignore those first two thoughts until the pain becomes excruciating. Meanwhile, waltz with me down memory lane to a time when the internet was just for looking up the tacky crap you had as a kid. Share in the spoils of my search!


Popples! Were they insects? I pretended to be into them to gain favor with my cousin, Dominick, who seemed to like them. I had Popples party favors for my 4th birthday, probably due to my competitive and jealous nature that was already rearing its ugly head at that tenderest of ages. "Now I have the most Poppleses!"


Dominick and I both had Nosy Bears because our family members got wise to my insane jealousy after the Popples affair. He had the one with the basketball court in its nose and I had the one with the hypnotic swirl. Dominick is a CPA living in the bay area and I'm unemployed and blogging in my underwear with some dislocated body parts with a box fan blowing . When will the endless comparing end and when will the healing begin? It starts with me, I know it starts with me. Ok, next toy!



Lucky Lemon Lion and Peppermint Kitty from the Yum Yum series. Got these for my fifth birthday, that summer when the house was infested with fleas. The lion was overpoweringly lemon scented. It was hard to play with these two friends together, as the artificial peppermint and lemon scents did not mix well. I should mention that my next-door neighbor, Bobby, got the Peppermint Kitty as well--seems I had ensnared another man in my jealous games-- a wicked spider woman am I!


The premise of this toy is ridiculous and many hysterical explanations can be found elsewhere on the internet. I had the Purr Tender that was disguised as a bunny and the smaller Purr Tenders that Burger King came out with as well. My mother got rid of the big Purr Tender along with some other treasures while I was minding my own business at school one abysmal day in 1992. I've spent every day since then slowly morphing into the perfect revenge: an unemployed, immature 26 year old woman-child with visible armpit hair. Moving on...


Sweetie Kitties--scented purple cats with Barbie hair! Hey, it's not any worse than My Little Ponies, unless the cloying aroma of fake lilac does, in fact, make it worse. There is surprisingly little info about these on the web-- might have to take this one into Deep territory. I had a whole collection of these...and so did Bobby. We had the exact same cats but I would say something like, "yourzis tail is not as brushably soft as minezis." Bobby grew up to be a real problem-- trouble in school, fist fights-- you name it. Was it always in his nature or was it the kiss of the spider woman? I will never know.


Little Miss Makeup. Did I have every toy on the market from 1988 to 1994? I'd like to think that toys were just way cheaper then and turn a blind eye to the possibility that I was spoiled.


Fashion Star Fillies. I didn't think much of this flamboyant blue horse at the time, probably because I got it as a gift and not because I begged for it after seeing it on tv or at another kid's house. I feel a sudden weird impulse to fill my apartment with them now, though. Or maybe wear one as a necklace to a party. Look at me look at me look at me!

Please note: the above listed are just the toys that I don't have anymore. There are roughly 50 remaining toys and stuffed animals waiting in the closet of my childhood bedroom from that garishly colored, artificially scented time. Is it any wonder that I developed psychological issues then that continue to pick up speed?

I leave you, intrepid readers, with a parting shot of Bobby and I at the Funderland amusement park in Sacramento. That little car was no doubt a hotbed of manipulations.


Special thanks to the similarly deranged people behind katrina's toy blog and Ghost of the Doll for jogging my memory.

Thirtysomething? Perpetual Adolescence?

Is anyone else out there returning home early from the latest noise show, not because it sucked (well, I guess it's better than dub step) but because you need to continue watching Thirtysomething on Netflix Instant Watch? Either I'm doing that thing where I find a way to isolate myself so that I can complain about how lonely I am, or I'm on to something here!

If you haven't watched it, now is the perfect time to get totally absorbed. The styling is so now--now in that 1988 way-- more chambray button ups, well-made oxfords, and pastel southwestern thick knits than you can shake an American Apparel catalog at. I've even been lusting after a set of dishes that hope brought out in episode 11. I came for the style, but I stayed for the emotionally fraught communication. Man can these people emote! Never has television heard so much frustrated sighing, or seen so many tight-lipped looks of disapproval.



One criticism I have of the show is that it seems to imply an inherent flaw in single women-- they are emotionally unsteady or otherwise damaged in some way-- and that's why they are unable to find decent men. It also implies that if only they were to find decent men, life would suddenly be fixed and secure. The protestations that "it isn't really so easy," coming from Hope, the show's key married woman, are weak, considering that she is rewarded with constant physical affection, a house of her own, and a beautiful collection of earrings. Though maybe this is more of a selling point than a criticism, because who doesn't half love that feeling of having your blood boil over a perceived injustice?

If I still haven't sold you on Thirtysomething, then behold Melissa's math equations coat that I covet fiercely, and tell me you don't want to get in on this.




I'll be watching until I run out of seasons, or until I get a job (whichever comes sooner.) Consider joining so that this doesn't become some weird "no one understands my shows" mopefest.

Up next: Northern Exposure. Stay tuned.

Suggestions For Your Jug Band

To those of you who make your earnings by busking: are you worried that the early American roots/jug band music you've perfected is becoming too hack? Maybe you just haven't taken it to the absolute limits of frustration yet. Take your signature song about a hobo boiling his own shoe and going blind drinking rot gut whiskey, and consider adding an eefing and hambonin' routine! I'm sure you'll find it to be the perfect addition to your set. Bonus: it will make you look really, really poor, and as you know, looking poor is ideal when you are asking for money. Good luck!