The Looseleaf Report Dot Com

Who is Victoria Looseleaf?




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 Report.

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?

Yea, right.

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 oven...").

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, matter?

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.


Steve Allen, ferchrissake. He invented the goddamn 'Tonight Show.'

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?

The perks?


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.


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 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

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