Welcome To Stargate Oakley

Now, you can't always make everyone happy — especially as a journalist — but defending something you've written to an angry executive is never fun.

A True Tale From The Files

In 1997, SOL Snowboarding was viewed as TransWorld SNOWboarding Business' main competition. I remember SOL got a sneak tour of the new Oakley world headquarters, and we all were pretty pissed about it. It was a decent scoop back when things like that seemed to matter. I, for one, wasn't going to be beaten like that — especially since SOL's editor had posted a snarky comment when I was hired.

So I went all out with my coverage of the Oakley shareholder meeting. Sharon H., our copy chief, wrote "genius" on the cover sheet of the story as it routed. It was one of my best professional compliments. Truth be told, I liked the story too. But it was risky and pretty "out there."

So I was nervous, two months later, when I got a series of phone messages from Colin B., the president of Oakley, saying he wanted to talk to me about the story. Now, you can't always make everyone happy — especially as a journalist. But defending something you've written to an angry executive is never fun. Taking a deep breath, I called him back.

He not only liked my story, he loved it. He offered me a full-time job that I (perhaps foolishly) declined. Nonplussed, he asked me to write the company's catalog and profile its athletes for its website. I mumbled something approximating, "Yeah, maybe" and hung up, feeling extremely relieved.

Five months later, the check for the catalog arrived. It's still the largest (by a country mile) freelance payment I've ever received. I was driving a beat-up Toyota Corolla FX16 with 110,000 miles on it. I took that Oakley check and bought a new 1998 Saab 900S.

It gave me ten years and 183,532 miles. More importantly, it gave me confidence to ask for what I think I deserve (and maybe more).  

Welcome To Stargate Oakley

Come down into the industrial bunker and hear the shareholder meeting news.

Your access has been granted. Welcome to the Culture.

It’s the tail end of the Millennium, where sex equals death, rain is full of acid, and an ozone-leeching sky sends showers of radiation down on an unsuspecting, uncaring populace.

But here in the plastic land of Orange County, perched on a hill that was once a vestige of wild in the sterile land of the lotus eaters, you think you’ve found a home in these last, final days.

Security is tight, the comforting embrace of a straitjacket. The interior is dark, gothic — a cross between the movie Stargate and a Tim Burton Gotham City acid nightmare. Huge, industrial mechanisms make you feel small, cared for. It’s good to know The Machine is in place and working for the betterment of mankind.

You sit down in the row of aircraft ejection seats near the door — trying, successfully, to look small and insignificant in the arching, cavernous lobby — hoping the receptionist doesn’t press the secret button that will send your chair hurtling through the roof and into the hopeless masses camped outside the gates below.

But the beautiful people are here, with technology wrapped in art perched quixotically on their heads in the dim interior. They welcome you and lead you down into the bunker. The others are waiting.

Reassuring The Clan

All is not well in the edifice. Stocks have taken a tumble with news of the November surprise. Too much inventory on the shelves of Sunglass Hut, not enough communication, and suddenly Wall Street seemed bathed in oil and pointed downhill.

But today the gathered group is patient, wants their fears to be allayed. They glance over to a smiling Michael Jordan whenever they feel the bile of worry rise in their stomach. (If he’s on our side, how can we lose?)

Jim Jannard, who first saw the vision of the coming times in 1975, stands on stage and works a laser light show, showing the superiority of Oakley’s optics. The standing-room crowd in the darkened theater murmurs appreciatively. “The best is not behind us. It’s before us,” says Jannard.

Then, other clan leaders rise and speak. Link Newcomb, COO, welcomes the group to the “not-so-humble” beginnings of the new Oakley office. He explains the recent troubles and why they will never reoccur. He points out that one out of 100 U.S. citizens has already been converted to the Oakley mission; the ratio is higher in Australia, one out of every 83. The worldwide movement is succeeding — India and France are mentioned as the next targets of the cause.

The sunglass market is huge, 9.8-billion dollars in sales worldwide, with four times that amount spent in the ophthalmology market, a new playing field for Oakley and the fastest-growing segment of its business. “The best is yet to come,” says Newcomb in summation. The clan nods and smiles; Dennis Rodman appears asleep in his chair.

Oakley’s success rests with only seven models — seemingly outgunned by Bausch & Lomb’s 230, but CEO Mike Parnell says seven will be enough, that the small number is actually an advantage.

Now the shareholder clan itself asks questions. This is your opportunity to make your mark. You squirm in your chair and your hand inches up. Then you remember the ejection seat, the lobby massif, the cold embrace of The Machine, and your hand returns to your side, shaking.

Perhaps no one noticed your impertinence, and indeed, the gathering soon breaks and you are invited to tour the new 413,000-square-foot world headquarters. But it soon becomes clear that your actions have been noticed. You are shown only incomplete glimpses of the facility — a connect-the-POP-case tour. A laundry list of areas you do not, and will never have, access to. Secrets must be kept, and jealous enemies of the Clan are everywhere in the marketplace.

You linger in the lobby, hesitant to leave. Hesitant to expose yourself to the harsh light of outside. Better to stay here in this mostly windowless oasis, where food, recreation, and a sense of purpose and corporate culture are all provided for you. But security is fidgety, the ejection seat awaits. You exit on your own terms. Sad to leave the dim sanctuary, you walk out through the front doors. You squint. The sun casts a hard shadow of your figure as you walk away.