Randy Vulakovich was an injured cop in the summer of 2005, on the couch in his Shaler home, dealing with his pain and watching the Pennsylvania General Assembly on TV, not a recommended way to deal with pain.

That, of course, was the summer of the middle-of-the-night, unconstitutional pay increase 253 lawmakers gave themselves. Mr. Vulakovich had read in the paper that the gang that couldn't budget straight might try to pull this off.

"I was waiting to see if they'd squeeze in one of those late-night deals," he said.

But he fell asleep despite his pain and, when he awakened, he discovered they'd approved the pay grab as he slept.

Mr. Vulakovich, a Republican, ran for office the following year and became the state representative. He knocked on thousands of doors during his campaign and found overwhelming support for reducing the size of America's Largest Full-Time State Legislature.

He hasn't found that support in Harrisburg.

I've often written of the tens of millions of dollars the state could save each year if we had a Legislature more like those of comparable states. The cost of our Legislature comes to more than a million dollars per lawmaker once all staff, travel and perks are figured. The savings from a leaner statehouse would be immediate and permanent.

But Mr. Vulakovich, now in his second term, sees benefits of another kind.

"I think we can do better business," he said. "We would have more knowledge of what goes on all the time."

He believes the leaders would become less powerful, particularly in the state House, which has 203 members to the Senate's 50.

It may be counter-intuitive, but when lawmaking is divided among so many, it's easier for a relative handful to hold tightly to the reins, Mr. Vulakovich believes. When you're too big, there's a tendency for the less experienced and powerful to defer to the judgment of the bigwigs.

He thinks that fewer people, "looking more into each other's eyes," would provide better governing.

I get that. My high school graduating class had about 20 more people than the number in the state House, and I couldn't imagine all of us agreeing on a good prank, much less a state budget.

Of course, in Pennsylvania this summer, that's more or less the same thing.

Rep. Vulakovich and I were having this conversation almost two weeks ago, but talk about the frustrations of Harrisburg keep way longer than bananas, so I think what he said then still holds.

He was putting in long days but was frustrated by being unable to accomplish what is one of the basic reasons for the General Assembly's existence. It made him both angry and embarrassed, he said.

He said he has stopped taking his per diem, the $158 a lawmaker can take atop his salary each day the legislature is in session. But his reason for doing this may be instructive: Lobbyists take him and other lawmakers out to dinner to discuss issues, and the lobbyists pick up the tab.

"I don't pay for that dinner, so why the hell is the state going to pay me to eat?"

This tradition of lobbyists picking up lawmakers' tabs reminded me of the preaching of Timothy Potts, the head of Democracy Rising Pennsylvania: The routine acts done legally in Harrisburg are almost as troublesome as the illegal stuff.

Mr. Vulakovich, however, says a lawmaker can learn a lot from lobbyists pushing their points of view in a restaurant. They often have information he seeks on a particular issue and "nobody's buying my vote for a dinner. Nobody. That just isn't going to happen."

I can believe that. I can also believe many among his 252 colleagues aren't so steadfast.

As Mr. Vulakovich himself puts it on his Web page: "Due in large part to the criminal actions of several elected officials and organizations, most Pennsylvanians have legitimately lost their trust in much of state government."

He is among a handful of House members who been voluntary contributing 1 percent of his monthly salary to pay for health care, and he introduced a resolution to establish a House-wide process for doing the same.

The resolution has 34 representatives' names on it, about 70 names short of meaning anything. It was referred to the Rules Committee in March, where it has sat for four months.

You might say Mr. Vulakovich's journey to Harrisburg began on a couch. Four years on, now that he's seen Harrisburg from the inside, I'd say it's even money that he'll be test-driving a psychiatrist's couch soon.