I went from psych major at UC Berkeley to Felicia Fantasy's Tenderloin boyfriend in one academic quarter. If I hadn't traded the soporific lecture hall for the strip club dressingroom, I might never have heard of Ricki Hilliard, the most notorious of the blue room vents. But almost nobody's heard of Ricki Hilliard. He was too blue. When we delve into the world of XXX-rated ventriloquism, we delve into such a black hole of human taboo that nothing radiates out.
Oblivion gobbles up the names.
I talk to agents like Gilbert Miller in Las Vegas, who knows everything about show biz from vaudeville to the point where it all turned to shit. He can't remember the name of a single dirty vent. Not only that, but he bristles at the very mention of filthy ventriloquists and distances himself in such a way that I feel ashamed I ever asked. The taboo is as strong now as in the 13th century when ventriloquists were tortured and executed by Christian authorities for the capital crime of making a voice appear to originate from someplace other than its source. It assumes the modal values of the culture as a constant, and the modifiers and enhancers measure just how far from mainstream taste you can expect the dummy to stray.