Goober’s M-S B-FF
Or
My Sunglass Fetish

One day last week, Goober and I were down below the house collecting specimens out of tidepools, when we saw a most unusual thing: a medium-sized buffalo-faced flounder. Now this may not mean much to most people, but a medium-sized buffalo-faced flounder is pretty rare in these waters, and I hadn’t seen one for close to a year, which was when the last flounder-running happened. The buffalo-faced flounder got its name way back when the first Anglo settlers hit this area. Apparently one of the first fishermen pulled a buffalo-faced flounder in, took one look at the critter, and said, “Darned if this here fish don’t look like a buffalo with fins,” and the name just kinda caught on. At least that’s how the story goes. However, based on information from one of my neighbors, the previous residents of this area called the buffalo-faced flounder pescados platija and, based on my own extensive research, which consisted of me sitting on my deck, sipping Bailey’s, fuzzling Goober’s fur, and thinking random thoughts, the residents that preceded those residents called them…lunch.

Anyway, Goober and I were watching this flounder do like his name says. He’d been trapped in a tidepool when the first half of ‘tidepool’ went out. Mr. Flounder appeared to be in a state of moderate to severe emotional upset (I’m sure some psychologist has already come up with a thoughtful label for this, possibly PTSD—Post Tidepool Stress Disorder), so Goober thoughtfully batted him (the flounder, not the psychologist, though that latter thought is rather enticing) with his paw, out of the pool and back into the ocean. Showed a lot of empathy, I thought. What didn’t show much empathy, though, was when Goober batted him, which was right as I was bending over to get a closer look at the floundering flounder, and when he got batted he flew by and knocked my expensive French sunglasses into the water. Of course, Goober felt badly about this, so he stuck his head in the water and picked up my glasses, with his teeth and by the lenses. This was a nice gesture, but not so good for the glasses.

Maybe at this point I should explain my French sunglass fetish. I watch very little television, but one of the broadcasts I do watch is the annual auto race from Monaco. It’s a good way to catch up on what the obscenely wealthy Euros do with their pocket money, and the scenery is spectacular in a ‘To Catch a Thief’ way, and it’s always fun to watch some driver misread a corner and launch his car into the bay. In addition to their yachts that cost more than your neighborhood; their watches (you can have one, too, if you’re willing to take out a second mortgage on your home); and their clothes that cost as much as your annual grocery budget; the
Monaco wealthy seem to be attached to very pricey sunglasses. I always enjoy the garish banners over various overpasses and such along the course, advertising brands of glasses I’ve never heard of around here, probably because they aren’t sold around here. Anyway, just for fun one Christmas, I decided what the heck, I’d splurge (a strange, almost ungentlemanly, yet oddly compelling word) on a pair of these ridiculous sunglasses and, boy, was I surprised. The optical quality was stellar, the look was pure Euro-trash, and the fit and feel was buttery on my somewhat grizzled face. No sketchy optics, no pre-broken-from-China-and-good-luck-getting-your-money-back frame. I felt like a million euros! At least! Maybe more! (Had enough of the exclamation marks by now?). Anyway…

When Goober helpfully retrieved my glasses with his teeth, I realized they were now little more than a very expensive novelty item or something the stereotypical dorky loser would wear in one of those money-losing 80’s teen ‘comedies,’ since there were two holes in one lens and three in the other. I couldn’t be peeved at Goober, since he was just trying to be helpful and make up for his clumsiness, so I just fuzzled his fur, thanked him for retrieving them (the glasses, not his fur), and slipped them (again, not his fur…) into one of the many pockets in my fishing shirt. Then my faithful pooch and I ascended the steep path to the highway and headed home…where I logged on and ordered another ridiculously expensive pair of French sunglasses.

I just can’t help myself, Je susi esclave `a la qualité.

Up Next:
Goober’s Origins