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?