Totally Buzzed : At Black Flys, It’s Hard Work Keeping Up the Bad Boy Image That Sells Sunglasses to Minors

The magenta sunglasses, the ones with cartoonish reptilian texture, were inspired by a toy monster. The overwhelmingly chrome shades? A Munich street performer once wore something similar.

Each pair in the Black Flys line comes with a story. Jack A. Martinez, who designed them all, holds up a big, blocky pair.

“Like my mother wore in the mid-’70s.”

In the realm of sunglasses, an optically correct domain ruled by classic Ray-Bans and sleek Oakleys, Black Flys has emerged as an upstart. This Costa Mesa design house has gone to war with other hot newcomers such as Arnet and Stussy, all of them battling over the lucrative crumbs of a $2.6-billion market.

But Martinez and his partner, former pro surfer Dan Flecky, have distanced themselves from the pack by delivering irreverent styles with a dose of attitude. They have featured nude women and pierced body parts in their advertisements, despite canceled orders from angry store owners. In October, when Huntington Beach police arrested a Black Flys-sponsored snowboarder for growing marijuana in his apartment, the company announced its continuing support for the alleged felon.

“We’re the young surf punks,” says Martinez who, at 30, ranks as an old-timer around the office. “We piss people off.”

This blend of hype and design plays well to some surfers, skaters and snowboarders. Well enough, in fact, to have generated $15 million in sales last year. At a San Fernando Valley shop, a salesman says all the kids ask for Black Flys. In Florida, the buyer for a national retail chain praises the lines’ “radical approach to color. These sunglasses are not for the faint of heart.”

Martinez flashes a silver-toothed grin.

“People think you can’t run a company any way you want. But you can.”

Sunglasses litter the floor of his office. So much plastic, wire and dark glass catch a glint from the ornate lamp in the corner, a memento purchased from the estate of the late Karen Carpenter. The jumble of frames range from thin and silvery to thick and Elvis-like.

“I get my inspiration everywhere,” he says, “from couture to bums in the street.”

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Appropriately, a hyper-adolescent vision of cool adorns the interior of the company offices, located in a drab business park. Murals, stickers and surf photos cover the walls. Most rooms feature a fish pond, aquarium or reptile tank. And a gun.

“We never fire them,” says Jonathan Paskowitz, progeny of the infamous surfing Paskowitz family and company front man. “It’s just the image.”

In back, in the warehouse, dried fronds festoon a loft. The employees, most in their 20s, drink beer up there. Standing on the steps, the 42-year-old Flecky looks positively mature despite a ponytail sprouting from his otherwise bald head.

“We were looking for a way to make money,” he says, recalling the company’s origin. “We thought, ‘What can we do?’ ”

It was 1990. Flecky had retired from pro surfing and was silk-screening T-shirts for surfwear manufacturers. Martinez had been hand-painting surfboards when someone from Ocean Pacific took note and hired him as a designer. “But he didn’t want a boss,” Flecky says. So the longtime surf buddies glanced around the industry and spotted an opportunity.

“Oakley was stuck on that blade design. No surfers were wearing them,” Martinez explains. “Ray-Bans were classic. But we wanted to do something different.”

With sunglass sales booming, and snowboarding poised to explode, the timing could not have been better. But the competition was stiff. Newcomers, most of them from Southern California, were left to pick around the edges of the market.

“Everybody jumped on the bandwagon,” says Greg Arnette, who joined the fray with his Arnet line. “The Black Flys guys did a great job with their marketing.”

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Martinez and Flecky--who named their shades on the suggestion of another surfer--chose to lure young customers with soulful, humorous revivals of ‘50s and ‘60s styles. But first, the partners spent six months churning out stickers, tagging street signs, hyping the Black Flys logo. They hired the talkative Paskowitz, who grew up surfing every beach in America and had boundless contacts. By the time their sunglasses hit the stores, the kids were ready.

The new line debuted in 1991 in surf and ski shops, soon catching the eye of a buyer at Sunglass Hut, a national chain. If ever the Black Flys guys might have turned respectable, this was their chance.

Instead, they arrived at the chain’s Florida headquarters in wild clothing. They plastered stickers inside the elevator and around the building.

“That is what they are known for,” says Amy Hauk, the buyer.

Now 30 models of Black Flys sell for $40 to $300 in stores, including Sunglass Huts, internationally. “It’s all those diverse styles they have,” says John Dao, manager of Sunglass Gallery in Laguna Beach, where the $110 Firefly is a top seller.

The company also produces T-shirts, hats, backpacks and snowboards. Its free monthly magazine, Lava, shows up in coffeehouses and nightclubs with photos of plastic evening gowns, odes to Kahlua and reviews of films such as “Speed Racer the Movie.” A line of stylized videos called “Fly TV” is in the works.

“Rated Triple-X,” Martinez says. “But not porn.”

A modicum of success has sprinkled new Mercedes and Land Cruisers in the company parking lot. But there are no illusions about tackling heavyweights such as the $124-million-a-year Oakley. Martinez and Flecky keep their priorities straight, closing shop and heading for the beach on days when the waves are big. Or scheduling meetings around trips to Fiji and Cabo.

Three weeks ago, they traveled to Banff, Canada, for a snowboarding convention that consisted mainly of slope time and parties. On the way home, border guards detained Martinez for two hours, subjecting him to a strip search before allowing him back in the country.

Business as usual at Black Flys. Arnette calls it the “bad-bad boy” approach.

“We’re just being what we are,” Flecky says. “Just like every surfer is.”