BUCKEY'S BEST LINER NOTES - LIBERTY ISSUE

"Some men are born to their titles. Others win theirs. But Richard Buckley came into his title because of a friend with the unlikely name of Midas, went to a bankrupt circus to buy his kids a pony. With a fine nose for bargains, Midas bought the circus. And phoned Buckley for help. (What do I do now, Daddy?) . . . The watchman led them through the warehouse, marched them past the line of mighty elephant rumps, past the dark roaring cages with thick aromatic clouds hanging overhead. They halted before the wardrobe trunks. From the first truck, Buckley pulls a vast purple robe studded with emeralds, rubies, sapphires, all of find solid glass. The robe is strangely shaped but he wraps it carefully around him, head to ankles. It leaves a broad trail in the dust as he steps over to the mirror. "Is he crazy?" the watchman asks. "That there's an elephant hanging. Belongs to the elephant!" But Buckley stares at his reflection. He bows. "Your Excellency," he whispers.

"Richard, now Lord Buckley, swept berobed from the warehouse and on through the streets of Chicago with people pretending not to stare, with the wind off the lake whipping his train sky-high, making a great clatter with the glass jewels. Arrived at his apartment, he set about celebrating his title, as nobility obliges. They came from everywhere, politicians, pimps and bankers, Negro musicians and Italian gangsters, chorus girls, policemen, pitchmen and hookers. And together they worked out the etiquitte of the royal court. For Lord Buckley was not the man to keep all that nobility to himself. He knew that Lord-ship is no good unshared. So it was "Your Ladyship, this . . . Your Grace that . . . Will your highness let go of my goddamn leg? . . ." They peppered the kitchen with eviction notices. Everybody had a fine time . . . and the party lasted three years."