Lesbians Gone Wild

Tinseltown it's not, but Chi Chi TV has a knack for cinematic melodrama. And bare skin.

Jillian Kurtzberg is trying to catch eggs between her ample breasts. With a little help from Gi Gi Cruz, that is. As Kurtzberg stands at the ready, statuesque in an army-green string bikini and high-heeled thongs, Cruz positions herself behind her, holding her friend's mammaries like a pair of catcher's mitts and keeping a steady bead on Ken LeSaint.

LeSaint — everybody calls him White Bread — is Kurtzberg's designated pitcher. From ten feet away, he underhands the egg, which sails gracefully through the air, end over end. Miraculously, it sticks, with a satisfying little thunk, right in Kurtzberg's cleavage.

The crowd gathered in Liza Trainer's two-story Fort Lauderdale studio, fueled by copious amounts of Miller Lite, goes crazy. It's a regular night at the studio for Trainer and her collaborators, who are operating at the wild and woolly end of the entertainment industry, providing do-it-yourself content for the Internet and, they hope, the DVD market.

Gi Gi Cruz (center, below) looks innocent enough, but guess how many photos of breasts are stored in her cell phone.
Gi Gi Cruz (center, below) looks innocent enough, but guess how many photos of breasts are stored in her cell phone.
Hurricane Wilma destroyed her studio and nearly bankrupted her. Now Liza Trainer (right) will use these knockers to get back on her feet.
Hurricane Wilma destroyed her studio and nearly bankrupted her. Now Liza Trainer (right) will use these knockers to get back on her feet.

The plan on this recent Thursday night is to test Trainer's idea for a kind of collaborative Howard Stern-meets-Girls Gone Wild, lesbian-style, for her seat-of-the-pants show, Chi Chi TV. Trainer thinks of it as "Benny Hill with boobs," correctly suggesting a similar emphasis on unusual camera angles and crude special effects — a must for Chi Chi, because it has literally no budget.

The action tonight is, for want of a better term, a dry run. In actuality, the second egg thuds off of Kurtzberg's chest and splatters on the lime-green floor, to the continuing amusement of Trainer's crowd. By the time White Bread has tossed the last of two dozen eggs, the floor is a sticky swamp of yolk and egg white. This was not entirely unexpected. In fact, at one point, Kurtzberg picks up a mannequin leg — just one of many props Trainer has accumulated — and ruthlessly bats a thrown egg into oblivion. Then she grabs a mannequin arm and smokes a cigarette through its fingers before ramming the artificial hand down her bathing suit and pretending to masturbate.

"I'm the only Jewish nasty little slut on the planet," she says in a raspy voice.

By then, Kurtzberg has also flashed her melons and hairless crotch while rolling on the floor and hidden an egg in her butt, asking everyone to guess where it is, then inexpertly "laying" it on the wood floor.

Chi Chi TV is a prime example of how savvy technologists are bypassing all the usual stops for breaking into the entertainment industry. All you need is a modicum of equipment, some spare time, and a raunchy idea. Trainer thinks she's found a damned sexy one.

She summarizes the concept: "An adorable little Latino lesbian goes out and gets girls to do things."

The dry run has been deemed successful — an egg actually can be caught between a pair of breasts — so Trainer and Cruz plan to take the stunt to Fort Lauderdale bars. It's just a matter of asking women — gay or straight — to pull off their tops and allow the proceedings to be filmed. This, they say, is one of the tamer ideas they've been talking about.

Why would anyone agree to a tasteless public display of spurious athleticism? Well, that's Cruz's department. Let's just say she's got a way of getting girls to do things.

Trainer says she got the idea for the show while interviewing Cruz, who happened to be at the studio auditioning for a documentary. (Trainer rents the studio out to other producers.) After Trainer and Cruz got to talking, it became clear that Cruz's quiet charm, impressive comic timing, and sneaky nature could be put to good use. Maybe they could even make some money.

Trainer, a stocky 44-year-old with close-cropped hair and a rambunctious demeanor, didn't used to think too much about turning a profit on her wild side projects. (She's an airplane refinisher by day.) Back in 2004, when she was making Ted-E Adventures, a stop-motion production that involved microwaving, decapitating, boiling, and otherwise brutalizing a fluffy white teddy bear, it was all just fun and pretend assassinations. Then came Hurricane Wilma.

Trainer's original studio and all her equipment were destroyed — 11 monitors and televisions, six computers, all her editing software, all the backups of shows on her hard drives, and all of her video footage. She remembers finding leaves caught in the keyboards and messy puddles on the floor. Trainer had invested three years and thousands of dollars in her studio, but FEMA offered her just $800 to get up and running again. Nearly broke but not defeated, Trainer rented a new studio on Second Avenue, near Croissant Park, and put herself on a mayonnaise sandwich diet.

The studio is now packed with elaborate movie props, all of which Trainer has constructed herself. A dyslexic who never passed the eighth grade — to say nothing of what has been diagnosed as attention deficit disorder — Trainer is a prodigy when it comes to building shockingly realistic props out of household materials.

A striped cat man made out of Styrofoam crawls up the side wall, and opposite it, a realistic-looking dead man (he reeks of death) made of newspapers, wood, clothes, and expanding foam hangs on a cross. In the corner, there's a golden Egyptian casket that looks fit for Tutankhamen; Trainer made it out of Legos and paint in no time flat, her friends say.

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