By Michael E. Miller
By Ryan Yousefi
By Kyle Munzenrieder
By Sabrina Rodriguez
By Michael E. Miller
By Carlos Suarez De Jesus
By Luther Campbell
By Kyle Munzenrieder
He had been working construction when he lost his job. "I got laid off, right around Christmas. I came home and cried and fell asleep and then I had a dream," he recalls. In the dream, God told Paramore to draw, and he received a vision of what is now his trademark, a derby hat over a smiling face. Then the deity revealed that women needed protection; not necessarily divine protection, but practical injury-proofing from sport injuries, just like men have. When Paramore awoke, he immediately sketched the design for the world's first female jockstrap.
"You don't question God," Paramore deadpans.
"I'm known for smiling through it all," he adds. The Bitch couldn't help but smile herself when she met the sharply dressed Paramore, sporting a derby and a matching ivory shirt and suit ensemble, who whipped out blueprints for the design of the basic jockstrap and the protective cup that is attached to the strap with Velcro.
Right now Paramore is working full-time as a painter until he can find financial backing for his invention. He pulled out a binder to show The Bitch photos and letters from celebrities who endorse the product. "Robin Givens endorses the product. Dr. Dre loves it," Paramore notes as he flips a few more pages to the lyrics to a song he wrote for Da Brat about the female jockstrap.
"Everybody talks good game, but we can't get the seed money to get the product out there," he says. "People are calling me, but they are just doing this --" Paramore shakes his head while making the you're-talking-out-your-ass motions with his hand.
The apparatus was recently thrust into the spotlight on the resurrected game show To Tell the Truth hosted by John O'Hurley, who is most recognized from his role as J. Peterman on Seinfeld. The producer of the show, Spencer Stephens, called one day. "He just heard on the street about the female jockstrap," says Paramore, who went on the show with his twin brother Rodney, who is also a bit of a tinkerer. Kermit the Frog was a guest panelist alongside Paula Poundstone, Meshach Taylor, and Traci Bingham. Only Taylor guessed correctly the Paramores were the inventors. "I guess the others didn't think a couple of brothers could invent something like this," he smirks.
Paramore then traveled to New York to meet with one potential investor: "I even brought him a mango -- 'cause he wanted a mango from Miami -- and then he messed around and took some of my products and I never heard from him."
The invention does have an endorsement, if not an investment, from a woman athlete who has tested it under extreme conditions. Tennis coach and former WTA pro player Kim Sands says, "The female jockstrap gives the complete freedom and comfort to run, jump, and hit with the greatest of ease. How do I know? Well, I was born to play sports at the highest level."
Paramore says he has thus far manufactured about 50 of the jockstraps, which he expects will retail for about fifteen dollars, but is waiting for an increase in cash flow so he can pay a professional seamstress to crank out more. For more information call 786-306-3211 or visit femalejockstrap.com.
This past week The Bitch was doing what she spends most of her time doing -- staring out the window of the New Times building instead of working -- when she spotted contributing writer, Rosebriar Café problem-solver, and curator-about-town Carlos Suarez de Jesus. Close behind Suarez, who was walking on Biscayne Boulevard, was a pursuing pedestrian in a chroma yellow oxford shirt, waving his arms, pointing, and yelling. At this exact moment two Miami police squad cars pulled up and officers wrestled Yelling Man to the ground.
The Bitch was astounded by the good fortune -- witnessing possibly criminal activity and Suarez's state of unharmedness -- and when she asked him about the incident, he provided the following hilarious account of his adventure: "Well, I think this schmuck wanted me either to be his bottom bunk bitch, seeing as he just got sprung from the clink a few hours earlier, or he wanted to deprive me of the chicken fillets I was fixing to grill. The dude followed me down the street and jumped me from behind in front of my apartment. I shook him off and called the cops as I walked over to the New Times lobby, since I know you have scarecrow security there. He followed me, threatening me the whole way as I dialed 911. Your lobby guard put him out like the Flintstones cat and I bumped into an editor outside who the guy bummed a square from. When the squad cars arrived, the hopped-up cretin gave them a sob story about spending the night in jail and needing to get back to the Gables where he lives. I declined to press charges after the cops patted him down and shooed him off. But after walking a block south, Gandhi returned to the scene with a craw full of language and a hell-bent 'tude that earned him another night at the spa."