A Garden State of Mind -- Confessions of a pod person

By J. Corbett Holmes
Illustration by Robert Best

It was a typical Monday night at the jungle gym. Nothing different. All the muscle groups were represented. Maneuvering through my workout ... with its standard composition in conjunction, I imagined the lives of those around me as they lifted weights, gossiped, climbed, ran, and cruised. All their activities were accompanied by the music pulsating from my iPod. Everyone weighed in differently ... depending on the tune.

Throughout time, some have starred in their own rock-hard operas, others a soap opera. Depending on how frequently I see them, many have reoccurring roles in their own mini-series. And for some, certain sexual thoughts (depending on their appearance) have been mixed in. But, they all have one thing in common: their imaginary names. There's Porn Star '70s Man, Kickin'-it, Mahalo, Pebbles and Bam-Bam, The Germanimal, Baby D, Gymnast Nancy, Turtle Man/TM, Buzby, TC (because he looks like Tom Cruise -- which used to be a compliment), Giselle (for his affection of ballet), Dopey, Sleazy (due to his excessive amount of time in the showers), and because it's the gym, naturally, Humpy. Most of the aforementioned names are terms of endearment, and I suspect many of them would find their imaginary lives both colorful and fulfilling. And for years, they have all lived harmoniously in my playfully perfect pretend. Until one day someone ruptured my pod!

While hanging from the cable machine in a bat-like configuration, the soundtrack to Garden State boomed in my ears. I coulda been a sailor ... coulda been a cook. I twisted to my tunes, checking to see if my taffy-stretched-body had pulled the love handles from my middle-aged-midsection. I coulda beeeeen one a these things first. Suspended from my perch, the reflection in the mirror allowed me a bird's-eye view of the gym floor behind me. I felt like Agent 99 spying through a strategically elevated compact. I could beeee oh sooo true, I would be... I should beeee... through and through. The usual suspects began to surface, and the only thing different now was my new soundtrack. So I closed my eyes and hung, letting the vertebrae in my back pop like dominos.

A weeding out of my "garden-state-of-mind" came in the form of a tap on the back. Dropping down, I turned, shutting off my iPod. It was the Germanimal. At his side was his latest conquest, a 20-something sprite -- his eyes still eager and believing. "Ahh ... he needs to finish his set!" he said, his head-gesturing towards the sprite. It was the first time I had heard the Germanimal's voice. Oddly, it was as I'd imagined ... mismatched, like his workout wardrobe choices. "Let me just do one more set, then you can have it!" I replied, offering up a smile. And just as I hauled the cables away from their stack of steel, I heard it!

"He doesn't care if you live or die!" The Germanimal blurted out to the sprite. His comment was made, assuming I was iPod infused -- lost in my typical tune trance. But, as it was still off, due to our exchange, the music to my ears had now been replaced by angry noise. I thought, "He couldn't be talking about me?!?" He was. I could see it in his eyes as I looked to the mirror for resolve. I was stunned! I finished my set, then walked away serving up a nonchalant swagger; but inside I was racing. I punched back into the pod protection, but even that didn't help. His words left a bite. The lyrical apple of my iPod had been poisoned.

Struggling to distract myself by changing my tune (to upbeat dance music), I sought refuge on the treadmill -- which unfortunately faced a wall of mirror, enforcing further reflection. What I witnessed was glaring! Unapproachable, removed, disconnected. But, did I appear mean? Someone who didn't care if people lived or died? Was my pod-like participation around the gym less than perfect? And, had I now become a victim of my own game of pod-perceptions; had his imagination become my enemy? Apparently it had labeled me careless, and that made me dig deeper -- to my core. Does our tech-connection stifle or support our social skills? And as we tune in to technology, are we at the same time becoming tuned out to each other?

Studying those around me -- other "pod people" -- I searched for signs of life that resembled resignation or stereo-supported disconnect. And while I was busy pruning the crowd for pod players, something else started to grow. I realized my dedication to the gym (health reasons aside) was due to my craving to connect, to be physically planted among my peers while attempting physical perfection (emphasis on the attempt). But how connected was I ... really? Maybe the Germanimal was right! Maybe my recurring rapport with my iPod resulted in perceived resignation? My music is a great motivator, but the garden-of-people around me are what truly motivate me towards a better body.

Given the Germanimal's destructive dig, I decided to put down my pod and play alongside some of my pretend health club cast. One at a time, I set out to playfully plant some participation on each of the aforementioned "pretend-pod-players." The results grew into a remarkable garden of knowledge.

The Germanimal, to this day, refuses to even make eye contact. Thus his judgment of me remains as mismatched as his work-outfit choices. Some have remained firmly planted in their preconceived opinions -- happy to leave this homo alone. Others I've fertilized with a smile and seedlings of conversation are slowly germinating. A few have led to coffee, which became grounds for numerous blossoming friendships. One I dated for a while, and two became previous columns. There are some for whom I still choose to maintain a fantastical dirty mind -- as opposed to hands. And for those other pod-players, I shall continue to water with a wave in order to see what surfaces.

Eventually I reunited (part-time) with my pod, and there it was again ... the soundtrack to Garden State! New Jersey, I thought, the "Garden" State. And that dug up an old memory. For years I'd lived in New York and held nothing but disregard for New Jersey. My impression was a snotty observation from across the river:. a distant view of polluted smoke stacks and dirty, dilapidated factories. I couldn't have cared less who lived or died over on the other side of that river. Years later, much to my dismay, through marriage, my father acquired a beach house on the Jersey shore. Over time, I made visits into the Garden State only to discover what a beautiful place it really was, and how much it had to offer.

I've grown quite fond of New Jersey as well as the fast-paced, ever-changing world of technology. But there is something to be said for simply getting your humanity-hands a little dirty. My community gardening among the gays constantly reminds me how little I know about my fellow flowers. But one thing I do know for sure is that I have always been interested in those around me, even when they're make believe. And, besides, if I didn't really care, what would I write about? So if you don't believe me, plant some participation on me and you may just be surprised by what grows out of my "garden state of mind!"

For your shaving graces, e-mail me at shavingsfrommyhead@yahoo.com.