Close your eyes and picture this: William F. Buckley Jr., the laconic voice of stuffed-shirt conservatism, is standing alone in a tight spotlight. Clad in a skin-tight suit of shiny black leather, he is lasciviously gyrating his stiff patrician’s hips while pronouncing with impeccable, unmistakably Ivy League diction the words, Warden threw a party in the county jail. Prison band was there and they began to wail. On second thought, don t do that. Buckley s newest novel, Elvis in the Morning, is horrifying enough. At one point in the novel Elvis visits an army pal who s gotten himself into a bit of trouble. Buckley writes, I m Elvis Presley. And I ve come to sing to Orson, on account he cayunt [sic] hear me on the record player. Now ain t thayut thuh ding-dangdest thang y awll evuh seeyun?
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