Who is Victoria Looseleaf?
HOW TO BE A MAJOR MINOR CELEBRITY - HOST YOUR OWN TALK SHOW,
EVERYTHING FOR FREE AND MEET THE HOTTEST MEN ON THE PLANET.
Chapter 1. THE EARLY YEARS:
MY BLUE PERIOD THROUGH THE RUBBER ERA
I'm a minor celebrity. In a town of mostly minor celebrities,
the name Victoria Looseleaf means something,
although, quite frankly, I'm not sure what. And I'm not quite
sure to whom. Nevertheless, I, Victoria Looseleaf, am
the Goddess of Public Access (and no, Looseleaf is not
my real name, while, yes, Public Access Goddess is probably an
oxymoron), but still: I do have my fans.
For the last nine (count 'em), nine years, I have been hosting
a talk/variety show called, 'The Looseleaf Report.' Not
to be confused with The McNeil Lehrer Report, The Kinsey Report
or The Hite Report. No. It's merely, The Looseleaf
By the way, we shortened it from Looseleafkowitz.
And they said it wouldn't last. And when ya think about it,
nine years on the air makes for a celebratory tenth season. If
the Los Angeles Opera Company can milk their tenth season for
two years, why the fuck can't I?
I'm talking late night, babies, not that daytime talk drivel.
I'm talking real live singing and dancing. Intelligent interviews,
conversation. Comedy. Literary Minutes. (Sydney Sheldon
reading from one of his unintelligible, massively popular mega-money-making
ersatz novels). Reviews. ("...Michael Douglas as
President Andrew Shepard exudes as much warmth as a rusted toaster
And no commercials.
I'm talking hot guests like Leonardo DiCaprio
when he still wet the bed. [FOR THE SKINNY ON LEO, CHECK
OUT MY BIO OF HIM ON THIS VERY WEB SITE, ALTHOUGH I'D MUCH PREFER
YOU SPRUNG FOR THE BOOK].
I'm talking Jim Carrey before Ace Ventura - way, way,
way before, but does it really, in the grand scheme of things,
I'm talking Placido Domingo, the Russian flyer from
the Cirque du Soleil and the resurrection of the group, Cream.
Would you believe Tippi Hedren, erstwhile star of Alfred
Hitchcock's "The Birds," but now more famous for being
that slut, Melanie Griffith's mother?
Yea, I'm talking is all. Because that's what I do best. I'm
talking both Bill and Ted before that excellent adventure.
(Uh, huh. Keanu...stoned on smack reciting Shakespeare,
"To snort or not to snort..."). Trading quips with
George Carlin - too bad that was the day that my hairdresser
chose to affix a circular braided hairpiece atop my skull, where
it resembled nothing less than a danish in search of a diner.
Steve Allen, ferchrissake. He invented the goddamn
None of that, "My Stepfather Married My Teenage Daughter
On Crack And So We All Sleep Together Now" shit.
No siree, none of that.
None of that Oprahrickileezacarniesallymonteljennygeraldobullcrap.
(Where is Dinah Shore when you really need her?)
But more to the point.
For your information: I have succeeded where so many before
me have not. When you think of the talk shows that have come
and gone - Joan Rivers, Dennis Miller, Arsenio Hall, Chevy
Chase, Whoopi Goldberg, Rick Dees, Pat Sajak (like he
should even be allowed to show that plastic puss of his on screen
at all is a travesty of diode tube justice worthy of a kind of
Napoleonic exile), etal - and realize that The Looseleaf Report
still lives, this is basically pretty fucking impressive stuff.
But then when you realize: I DO NOT GET PAID...this is fairly
mind-boggling... and I must be the one out of her boggled mind.
Why, then, do I do it?
Oh, yes. The perks.
I am on a first name basis with my UPS man ("Tom"),
my Fed Ex guy ("Dick"), my City Post fella ("Harry"),
not to mention all of those beautiful boys in blue down at the
Post Office who do deliver, to me, on a daily basis, a plethora
of cds, books, audiotapes, videotapes, candy, flowers and - gasp
- the occasional odd piece of Victoria's Secret lingerie. (I
was getting Wonderbras before anyone was wondering about them
- see illustration)
And the fan letters. Whoa. (see illustration)
Then there are the: free clothes, including gowns (both ball
and tea-length), skirts slit up the front, sides and back, velvet
palazzo pants and shimmering satin jackets suitable for dining
at Sardi's and Chinois; eyeglasses, yoga classes,
gym memberships (accompanied by one of those cute trainer-types
named 'Brick' - so what if he had the IQ of a Diet Coke...),
acupuncture treatments, weekly hair dos (including: straightening,
coloring, highlighting, cutting, washing, conditioning, setting
and/or blow-drying) and make-up; facials for life; endless pairs
of shoes that even a card-carrying foot fetishist would approve;
press tickets to virtually any show in and out of town (including
New York, San Francisco, Miami and London); gratis drinks and
meals (oysters Rockefeller anyone?); gourmet coffees and frommages
from a little shop called 'Cheeseworld of Cleveland'...and the
one-off oil painting done personally pour moi (okay, so
it was a life-size nude - at least I had the balls to unveil
it on the show - would Letterman do that?). And lest I forget:
my very own Christmas wreath(seasonal only), to adorn the minimal
set (literally - an old tv painted in pastels and two plastic
martini cups), of The Looseleaf Report.
But I digress.
For those of you out there who don't know what Public Access
is, cable-up, folks and get hip to the program. Throw away that
Halcion and try Prozac (yea: you and the other 89 % of the population).
Then... memorize every line in this book, bow down, kiss my feet
and realize that I AM THE FUTURE OF TELEVISION.
That I am to Public Access what Martin Scorcese is to movies.
That I am the flip side of network tv.
AND I CAN TEACH ALL OF YOU PLEBES OUT THERE HOW TO CONQUER
THIS MEDIUM, TOO!
Small, medium, large, whatever the fuck you wanna call it
- IT CAN BE FUCKING YOURS.
Keep in mind, that Victoria Looseleaf and The Looseleaf
Report, bare-bones, raw, mistake-riddled and bizarre as we
might seem, can, most definitely...be addicting.
Check this out:
Public Access has been called the vaudeville of the 90's (by
me - I coined that one); I am the "deconstructionist
Ed Sullivan" for that same decade. (Actually, the
Los Angeles Times called me that, and Details, that so-called
arbiter of cool, common low-denominator mag called me the "Goddess
of Public...", well, you know the rest).
In a nutshell, Public Access is vanity television. You pays
your money, you gets your own tv show. It's that simple.
Here in Los Angeles, however, the television capital of the
world, most producers of Public Access television shows do aspire
to the Roseanne/Tim/Jerry/Jay/Dave/megastardom thing, or, at
least...hope to get a fucking paycheck.
So, after crawling up the lowly ranks for the last nine years
and taping more than 300 shows of The Looseleaf Report, I can
proudly say that I am now at the top of the bottom of the heap.
This, then, is my story.
And it can be yours, too, dear readers