PAGING MR. SUPERMAN
(by Irving Layton)
I myself walked into the Sheraton
And after remarking his raw nose
Was part natal umbilicus I told
The clerk in the loudest voice I could bear:
"Page me Mr. Superman," He looked
Diffidently at me but acceding
My tie-pin, made of the rarest onyx,
Belonged to neither a sour fanatic
Nor one sick in the head from eating
Shrimps canned in the Andes and contraband
Here, he signalled for the call boy who came
Running all spongy with awareness,
His cheeks flapping in the air-conditioned
Air and his white dentures extended in
Warmest greeting. "Page Mr. Superman,"
The uneasy clerk said eyeing my pin
To re-assure himself and in his mind
Recapitulating the small number
Of paid two-week vacations he had had.
Luckily the grey-haired call boy was one
Of the ignatzes the cities now breed
Reliably and with a more exact
Efficiency than former days.
He saw
Nothing remarkable in the clerk's request
And sent his voice through the loudspeaker
Of his imagination constructed
In the faraway days of childhood in rooms
Alone with Atlas and the last pages
Of boys' magazines. I heard the glory
Of it that afternoon like the closing
Chords of Handel's Messiah. "Superman"
It rang out clear across the floor polish.
"Mr. Superman." There was such triumph,
Such wild exultation in his voice,
The pale cigarette girl at the counter
For the first time in her life gave wrong change
And all the elevators raced upwards
As if a pistol shot had startled them;
They did not stop till they had crashed the roof
Where one can see their solemn closed cages
Side by side and standing pigeon-spotted
Like the abunas on the cathedral
Dazed-seeming by the wildest flight of all.
This was the cocktail hour when love
Is poured over ice cubes and executives
Lay their shrewdest plans for the birth of twins
With silver spoons; when one forgets the ships
Aground in fog, the pilot with letters
For mountain peaks and snow; the silent poor;
Or the wife with pre-menstrual tensions;
When Asia is rubbed out with an olive,
A truce ordered to the day's massacres.
I saw only six in the large lobby,
Five men and one solitary woman,
Who hearing Mr. Superman called
Looked up at once from the puddle of their
Lives where they stood at the edges making
Crumbling mud pies out of paper money.
While the stout woman adjusted her bra
And studied the door of the Gents' Room,
The men had risen to their feet watching
Scared and breathless the quick revolving door
As if they expected the flashing blades
To churn him into visible substance.
But no one emerged from either place;
The unusual name was finally
Lost under the carpet where it was found
The next day badly deteriorated.
The condemned six returned to their postures
And the hour rained down the familiar
Wrinkles and the smiles cutting like glass.
The call boy gave it as his verdict
Superman was nowhere in the lobby,
And the tall clerk now regarding my pin
Mistrustfully rubbed the umbilical
Part of his nose that was raw and itchy.
"He has not yet arrived," he said. "Perhaps
You'll return later." For a split second
I thought he was making game of me
But his eyes were steady as if fixed
On a T.V. serial. I thanked him
And smiling amiably in all
Directions of the bell-shaped womb, I walked
Out into the ordinary sunshine.
Monday, March 12, 2012
Monday, March 5, 2012
Peter Darbyshire's The Warhol Gang
Authors of futuristic novels can often have things both ways. For their imaginative worlds, the serious praise of prophecy rightly intuited is highlighted, as is the repeated bows and salutes for creating an alternate reality that mirrors aspects of contemporary society while introducing us to technology, social interaction, and psychological states that boldly go where ... (I know I know, treading on trademarked Gene Roddenberry ground, if he indeed penned it).
Peter Darbyshire's second novel, 2010's The Warhol Gang, is a futuristic proposition, but the time and space perspectives are near and nearby. It therefore has more responsibility to make its world believable for its transition from, and dependency on, today's streets and strophes.
Trotsky (most of the characters' names are cleverly penned as an ironic commentary on revolutionaries) is in need of a job, any job, so, through a career employment agency, is matched with Adsenses, a neuromarketing company which transposes product images in a hologram for its guinea pigs (or canaries) in order to see which areas of its employees' brains light up with excitement and (therefore) buying stimulus. The problem for Trotsky is that the images are so technologically effective, so powerful, that they literally erase great chucks of his memory and create an obsession for him to buy the products he sees in his workpod.
So far, so good. The story follows countless other fictions in which the past is erased, and one is left to negotiate between a shifting reality without moral guidelines or social commonplaces. At first, our troubled hero or anti-hero acquires the goods, but when his "Is that all there is" moment arrives, he goes searching for a deeper meaning through visceral, dramatic ambulance-chasing attempts to bond with the dead and dying. I'm not sure why Trotsky has this powerful impetus when no other fellow employees are stricken so, and especially when his brain has been so reprogrammed and manipulated. It seems that his confusion and amorality (dramatically convincing in paint-by-numbers prose) would set him off as just one more drone who inevitably goes postal after a meaningless existence, accelerated day by day. And in fact, a variant of that (likewise) nihilistic staple is next up. Theft ramps up to destruction and manslaughter, though I won't spoil the plot further.
The biggest problem with The Warhol Gang is in its prophetic course. Without a doubt, Darbyshire makes thoughtful points on the fifteen-seconds-of-fame desires of the mob (everyone? most? and how much is technologically driven, how much a psychological inevitability of human nature?) -- no subtlety, after all, that the gang is named after the proudly unoriginal Campbell's soup displayer -- and he also aces, in many wonderful scenes that go far beyond envy, an obsessive compulsion to become the other person which certainly have roots in consumer manipulation. But a sober look-'round, whether in Vancouver or Virginia, tells us that mall-mania and credit availability are already on the downturn, one that is likely to be long-lasting (perhaps permanent), worldwide, and relentless. There hasn't been a major mall built in the U.S. in a decade, and most of the remaining ones are filled with closed and closing stores; the international financial clusterfuck means credit card companies and banks will be (and are) reducing the number of right-side zeroes on consumer limits. Frivolous goods are still promoted, still bought, still desired, perhaps, in a perverse way, desired now even more so, but it's the desire for extreme experience in a war zone as one last stimulation before death (again, Darbyshire does an excellent job in delineating this). But it's not that people will clamour for ever more sophisticated versions of communications devices or work-easing appliances, it's that the money (i.e. natural resources) to create desires in prospective customers (in a pod or not) won't be there, meaning that it's tentacular grip will relax and sink to the bottom of the sea.
The second problem with the novel is its lack of any positive counterforce. (I don't call the "conflicted" Trotsky a meaningful alternative). Novels can certainly be unrelentingly grim, and some are better for their faithfulness to a monochromatic tone, but The Warhol Gang loses a lot of moral force and social realism by reducing its world to the disaffected inhabitants of a world uniformly compelled to sell it guns and garters.
Peter Darbyshire's second novel, 2010's The Warhol Gang, is a futuristic proposition, but the time and space perspectives are near and nearby. It therefore has more responsibility to make its world believable for its transition from, and dependency on, today's streets and strophes.
Trotsky (most of the characters' names are cleverly penned as an ironic commentary on revolutionaries) is in need of a job, any job, so, through a career employment agency, is matched with Adsenses, a neuromarketing company which transposes product images in a hologram for its guinea pigs (or canaries) in order to see which areas of its employees' brains light up with excitement and (therefore) buying stimulus. The problem for Trotsky is that the images are so technologically effective, so powerful, that they literally erase great chucks of his memory and create an obsession for him to buy the products he sees in his workpod.
So far, so good. The story follows countless other fictions in which the past is erased, and one is left to negotiate between a shifting reality without moral guidelines or social commonplaces. At first, our troubled hero or anti-hero acquires the goods, but when his "Is that all there is" moment arrives, he goes searching for a deeper meaning through visceral, dramatic ambulance-chasing attempts to bond with the dead and dying. I'm not sure why Trotsky has this powerful impetus when no other fellow employees are stricken so, and especially when his brain has been so reprogrammed and manipulated. It seems that his confusion and amorality (dramatically convincing in paint-by-numbers prose) would set him off as just one more drone who inevitably goes postal after a meaningless existence, accelerated day by day. And in fact, a variant of that (likewise) nihilistic staple is next up. Theft ramps up to destruction and manslaughter, though I won't spoil the plot further.
The biggest problem with The Warhol Gang is in its prophetic course. Without a doubt, Darbyshire makes thoughtful points on the fifteen-seconds-of-fame desires of the mob (everyone? most? and how much is technologically driven, how much a psychological inevitability of human nature?) -- no subtlety, after all, that the gang is named after the proudly unoriginal Campbell's soup displayer -- and he also aces, in many wonderful scenes that go far beyond envy, an obsessive compulsion to become the other person which certainly have roots in consumer manipulation. But a sober look-'round, whether in Vancouver or Virginia, tells us that mall-mania and credit availability are already on the downturn, one that is likely to be long-lasting (perhaps permanent), worldwide, and relentless. There hasn't been a major mall built in the U.S. in a decade, and most of the remaining ones are filled with closed and closing stores; the international financial clusterfuck means credit card companies and banks will be (and are) reducing the number of right-side zeroes on consumer limits. Frivolous goods are still promoted, still bought, still desired, perhaps, in a perverse way, desired now even more so, but it's the desire for extreme experience in a war zone as one last stimulation before death (again, Darbyshire does an excellent job in delineating this). But it's not that people will clamour for ever more sophisticated versions of communications devices or work-easing appliances, it's that the money (i.e. natural resources) to create desires in prospective customers (in a pod or not) won't be there, meaning that it's tentacular grip will relax and sink to the bottom of the sea.
The second problem with the novel is its lack of any positive counterforce. (I don't call the "conflicted" Trotsky a meaningful alternative). Novels can certainly be unrelentingly grim, and some are better for their faithfulness to a monochromatic tone, but The Warhol Gang loses a lot of moral force and social realism by reducing its world to the disaffected inhabitants of a world uniformly compelled to sell it guns and garters.
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Carol Shields' Swann
I liked the impetus behind Carol Shields' 1987 novel, Swann. A kid glove satirical jab at silly, pretentious academics who opine on the poetry of an obscure poet brutally murdered by her husband, it had the potential to comment on academic careerism, the ambiguous nature of art, and the vicissitudes of celebrity within the arts community. Unfortunately, though Shields scores a few points from these ideas, the novel's focus is on dull character sketches and unfunny dialogue.
Swann is divided into five chapters. Each of the first four concentrates on one of the main characters; the final chapter, reminiscent of her later Larry's Party, brings these and other characters together in a symposium supposedly shedding light on the life and art of the titular victim, but instead "exposing" the shallow, pompous, petty, and/or narrow-minded attributes of the attendees. The scare quote in the previous sentence is so because the point has been made redundant long before the conference. It still would have been OK if the final scene had provided some laughs, but it doesn't, and the uninteresting subplot "whodunnit" is even less thrilling.
The only parts I enjoyed were most of chapter four in which Frederic Cruzzi, the contrasting sympathetic character, was visited by a pitiable Swann the day before her murder, as well as the subsequent emotional incident with his loved and loving wife. That still doesn't make up for the excruciating chapter three (and parts of the last chapter) wherein a shy, reclusive Rose Hindmarsh is allowed to expansively ruminate on a fascinating life between library and night-reading in her rented suite.
The regularly displayed poetry of Swann is perhaps, in a postmodern smirk, meant to get the reader going on subtlety and genuine emotion vs derivation and cliche, the more heavily invested of us finally realizing we're the butt of the joke. But because academics are frequently made to look silly (when anyone cares to pay attention) doesn't render useless exegesis and evaluation. Shields' novel of "ideas" would have been a lot more interesting if she took a stand on that issue. Better poems would have been a prerequisite for that kind of exploration, though.
Swann is divided into five chapters. Each of the first four concentrates on one of the main characters; the final chapter, reminiscent of her later Larry's Party, brings these and other characters together in a symposium supposedly shedding light on the life and art of the titular victim, but instead "exposing" the shallow, pompous, petty, and/or narrow-minded attributes of the attendees. The scare quote in the previous sentence is so because the point has been made redundant long before the conference. It still would have been OK if the final scene had provided some laughs, but it doesn't, and the uninteresting subplot "whodunnit" is even less thrilling.
The only parts I enjoyed were most of chapter four in which Frederic Cruzzi, the contrasting sympathetic character, was visited by a pitiable Swann the day before her murder, as well as the subsequent emotional incident with his loved and loving wife. That still doesn't make up for the excruciating chapter three (and parts of the last chapter) wherein a shy, reclusive Rose Hindmarsh is allowed to expansively ruminate on a fascinating life between library and night-reading in her rented suite.
The regularly displayed poetry of Swann is perhaps, in a postmodern smirk, meant to get the reader going on subtlety and genuine emotion vs derivation and cliche, the more heavily invested of us finally realizing we're the butt of the joke. But because academics are frequently made to look silly (when anyone cares to pay attention) doesn't render useless exegesis and evaluation. Shields' novel of "ideas" would have been a lot more interesting if she took a stand on that issue. Better poems would have been a prerequisite for that kind of exploration, though.
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Essay and Review
My essay on literary readings has been online at Canadian Notes & Queries for two months:
http://notesandqueries.ca/be-proud-to-linger-a-cnq-web-exclusive/
I also have a review of Grant Buday's memoir, Stranger On A Strange Island, in subTerrain's latest issue, #60.
http://notesandqueries.ca/be-proud-to-linger-a-cnq-web-exclusive/
I also have a review of Grant Buday's memoir, Stranger On A Strange Island, in subTerrain's latest issue, #60.
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
Rohinton Mistry's Such A Long Journey
Rohinton Mistry spent his first twenty-two years in India before settling in Toronto, long enough, obviously, to remember the colours, sights and sounds of his initial neighbourhood and outlying communities. Such A Long Journey, though, his 1991 novel set in 1971 Bombay, provides the reader with an emotional and moral adventure, not a memoirish curio as a travelogue substitute. In Gustad Noble, Mistry has created a fascinating protagonist, an angry yet loyal man, besieged by working poverty, political danger in a secret plan gone awry, tense relations with his eldest son, the sickness of his daughter, infelicities from his friend and work associate, a permanently damaged hip from saving his son's life many years ago, and the mundane yet soul-grinding daily problems which always arrive as emergencies in his household and compound. Noble's transformation is not only filled with emotional layering (narrated at a leisurely pace, but in tense fashion), it is believable and unpredictable.
I appreciate that Mistry didn't shy away from Indian regional dialect, and that the objects and emotions those words referred to were necessary, enlightening some element of plot or place.
The book is at times repetitive and awkward in tone and phrase, and in this, it reminds me of Theodore Dreiser's great An American Tragedy. It also shares with that classic a powerful narrative drive. Compromising elements of a novel are as nothing when the positive elements are at a high level, and numerous. (Moby-Dick breaks all the boring rules about "tightness of plot", but the novel doesn't thrive as a well-made craft-rectangle in a workshop window.)
The novel's ending is superb. It takes a lot of guts to write about characters earlier depicted as comic fodder in such a vulnerable and sympathetic manner. And the final subplot, or denouement (the fate of the art on the compound wall, and the transient artist who created it) is handled deftly, with classical scope.
I appreciate that Mistry didn't shy away from Indian regional dialect, and that the objects and emotions those words referred to were necessary, enlightening some element of plot or place.
The book is at times repetitive and awkward in tone and phrase, and in this, it reminds me of Theodore Dreiser's great An American Tragedy. It also shares with that classic a powerful narrative drive. Compromising elements of a novel are as nothing when the positive elements are at a high level, and numerous. (Moby-Dick breaks all the boring rules about "tightness of plot", but the novel doesn't thrive as a well-made craft-rectangle in a workshop window.)
The novel's ending is superb. It takes a lot of guts to write about characters earlier depicted as comic fodder in such a vulnerable and sympathetic manner. And the final subplot, or denouement (the fate of the art on the compound wall, and the transient artist who created it) is handled deftly, with classical scope.
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
Anne Michaels' Fugitive Pieces
Garnering polarizing responses from its readers, Anne Michaels' 1996 Fugitive Pieces is a Vox Dei novel (the people may as well be from a different universe, novel characters or readers). Precious, obscurely suggestive, hightoned and flatlined: these and many other dismissive adjectives can be applied to the book, but what really made me, by turns, laugh or groan was the unnecessary historical and archaeological detail. Pages of dry sourcebook ruminations on limestone and flora and bioluminescent gardens are included, of course, in an attempt to comment on the protagonist's submerged flickering-light soul struggles. Metaphor has rarely been this ambitious and abstract. The other reason for the geological main hall lectures? Well, after all that background reading, whether from personal interest or from necessary planning from a novel outline, it's tempting to brag to the readership that you've browsed more than a book or two, maybe even thought about its contents. Novel concept!
The instruction isn't always about sea foam and gypsum blossoms, though. Bare names are splashed across the page as if by their solemn intonation alone they conferred upon their author an open-ended gravitas:
"There were many volumes of poetry, more than I remembered, as well as Athos' lessons: Paracelsus, Linnaeus, Lyell, Darwin, Mendeleev. Field guides. Aeschylus, Dante, Solomos."
One character in the entire book -- Alex -- remotely resembled a human being. The others were eidolons, in both main meanings of the word. With that in mind, the sex scenes between Jakob and Michaela were hilarious, unintentionally so, because nothing in this book is meant to be funny, not even the dialogue puns. Body parts are touched in amazement: hands, arms, skull, femurs, sacrum, sternum, ears, feet, forehead, damp hair, hipbone, calves, eyes, wrists, pelvis. But no cock! (This is narrated by a man.) His selflessness is not only unbelievable, it's offensive. Who would want to make love with an out-of-body soul-merger? The foreplay? "I hear her small voice -- long phrases of music and stillness like an oar balanced in its arc above the water, dripping silver."
At least suggestion and self-importance in poetry is over in 90 emaciated pages. It's not as if there's a narrative in Fugitive Pieces that has to be filled in.
The instruction isn't always about sea foam and gypsum blossoms, though. Bare names are splashed across the page as if by their solemn intonation alone they conferred upon their author an open-ended gravitas:
"There were many volumes of poetry, more than I remembered, as well as Athos' lessons: Paracelsus, Linnaeus, Lyell, Darwin, Mendeleev. Field guides. Aeschylus, Dante, Solomos."
One character in the entire book -- Alex -- remotely resembled a human being. The others were eidolons, in both main meanings of the word. With that in mind, the sex scenes between Jakob and Michaela were hilarious, unintentionally so, because nothing in this book is meant to be funny, not even the dialogue puns. Body parts are touched in amazement: hands, arms, skull, femurs, sacrum, sternum, ears, feet, forehead, damp hair, hipbone, calves, eyes, wrists, pelvis. But no cock! (This is narrated by a man.) His selflessness is not only unbelievable, it's offensive. Who would want to make love with an out-of-body soul-merger? The foreplay? "I hear her small voice -- long phrases of music and stillness like an oar balanced in its arc above the water, dripping silver."
At least suggestion and self-importance in poetry is over in 90 emaciated pages. It's not as if there's a narrative in Fugitive Pieces that has to be filled in.
Sunday, January 29, 2012
A Short Story in Six Names
In today's last race at Tampa Bay Downs, these were the names of six of the ten horses which competed:
Sea Fighter
Troubleinrivercity*
Mr. Bad
Hookedonchurchpunch*
Wokeuponhomeplate*
Akickintheface
More dramatic than many stories I've read, 4, 40, or 400 pages.
* The run-ons aren't the cutesy fad they may appear to be, at first glance. Horse racing regulations stipulate that thoroughbreds' names be no longer than 18 characters, including spaces. The concluding chapter's appellation, then, could have been separated. Oh, and for what it's worth, the face kick won.
---------------------------------------------------------------
Sea Fighter
Troubleinrivercity*
Mr. Bad
Hookedonchurchpunch*
Wokeuponhomeplate*
Akickintheface
More dramatic than many stories I've read, 4, 40, or 400 pages.
* The run-ons aren't the cutesy fad they may appear to be, at first glance. Horse racing regulations stipulate that thoroughbreds' names be no longer than 18 characters, including spaces. The concluding chapter's appellation, then, could have been separated. Oh, and for what it's worth, the face kick won.
---------------------------------------------------------------
Conditions: 6 FURLONGS MAIDEN CLAIMING. FOR MAIDENS, THREE YEARS OLD. Weight, 120 lbs. Claiming Price $12,500, if for $10,000, allowed 2 lbs.
Purse: $11,000 Value of Race: $11,000 1st $7,000 2nd $1,800 3rd $1,100 4th $500 5th $100 6th $100 7th $100 8th $100 9th $100 10th $100 Mutuel Pool: $148,742 Pick 3 Pool: $18,881 Pick 4 Pool: $47,575 Pick 5 Pool: $20,975 Daily Double Pool: $22,622 Exacta Pool: $133,021 Superfecta Pool: $65,978 Super High Five Pool: $7,353 Trifecta Pool: $106,490
| # | Horse | A/S | M/E | Wgt | PP | St | 1/4 | 1/2 | Str | Fin | Jockey | Odds |
|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|
| 10 | Akickintheface | 3 C | L b | 120 | 10 | 6 | 33 | 11/2 | 14 | 12 1/2 | Cotto, Jr. Pedro L. | 5.40 |
| 2 | Offlee Clever | 3 C | L b | 120 | 2 | 2 | 82 | 81 | 3hd | 2no | Allen Mike | 7.90 |
| 7 | Fly Dixie | 3 G | L b | 114 | 7 | 10 | 10 | 91 1/2 | 5hd | 3hd | Barbaran Erik | 10.70 |
| 8 | Troubleinrivercity | 3 C | L b | 120 | 8 | 9 | 94 | 10 | 10 | 41 1/4 | Feliciano Ricardo | 66.60 |
| 6 | Wokeuponhomeplate | 3 C | L | 120 | 6 | 7 | 62 | 53 | 2hd | 53 3/4 | Santos Ademar | *2.60 |
| 9 | Mr. Bad | 3 C | 118 | 9 | 8 | 71 | 71/2 | 91 | 61 1/4 | Reznikov Alexander | 50.90 | |
| 3 | Sea Fighter | 3 G | L | 120 | 3 | 3 | 5hd | 61 | 7hd | 71 | Guidry Mark | 6.40 |
| 5 | Mr Cowboy Mike | 3 C | L | 120 | 5 | 5 | 11/2 | 3hd | 6hd | 82 | Zambrana Eddie Joe | 46.50 |
| 1 | Hookdonchurchpunch | 3 G | L b | 120 | 1 | 4 | 2hd | 22 | 41 | 91 | Gonzalez Luis Antonio | 7.20 |
| 4 | Callejero | 3 C | L | 120 | 4 | 1 | 41/2 | 41/2 | 81/2 | 10 | Morales Pablo | 2.70 |
| Off Time: 4:47 Start: 10 went. Good for all. Won driving. Track: Fast Weather: Clear 67o |
| Fractions: :223, :463, :594, 1:132 (:22.79, :46.77, :59.84, 1:13.56) |
| # | Horse | Win | Place | Show |
|---|---|---|---|---|
| 10 | Akickintheface | 12.80 | 6.80 | 5.40 |
| 2 | Offlee Clever | 7.20 | 4.20 | |
| 7 | Fly Dixie | 5.60 |
| Pedigree: | 10 - Akickintheface, Dark Bay or Brown Colt, 3, by With Distinction - Jo Ann's Gal by Relaunch |
| Wager Type | Payoff | Winning Numbers | Pool | |
|---|---|---|---|---|
| $2 Pick 3 | $996.00 | 7-10-10 (3 Correct) | $18,881 | |
| $2 Pick 4 | $4,501.20 | 8-7-10-10 (4 Correct) | $47,575 | |
| $1 Pick 5 | $8,914.00 | 9-8-7-10-10 (5 Correct) | $20,975 | |
| $2 Daily Double | $81.80 | 10-10 | $22,622 | |
| $2 Exacta | $134.20 | 10-2 | $133,021 | |
| $1 Superfecta | $10,624.70 | 10-2-7-8 | $65,978 | |
| $1 Super High Five | $0.00 | 10-2-7-8-6 (Carryover: $6017) | $7,353 | |
| $2 Trifecta | $1,077.60 | 10-2-7 | $106,490 |
| Race Summary |
|---|
AKICKINTHEFACE vied four wide early, shook clear and drew off to mid stretch then held a safe margin late under steady handling. OFFLEE CLEVER made a middle move, angled to the middle of the track then was up for the place late. FLY DIXIE split rivals in the furlong grounds to be gaining late. TROUBLEINRIVERCITY fanned five wide then closed a gap outside. WOKEUPONHOMEPLATE was well placed into the stretch then weakened. MR. BAD raced evenly. SEA FIGHTER failed to menace. MR COWBOY MIKE was through after a half. HOOKDONCHURCHPUNCH dueled into the stretch then faltered. CALLEJERO was boxed inside for a half then was shuffled back while stopping. |
| Owners: |
| Trainers: |
| Breeders: |
Data provided or compiled by Equibase Company, which includes data from The Jockey Club, generally is accurate but occasionally errors and omissions occur as a result of incorrect data received by others, mistakes in processing and other causes. Equibase Company and Bloodstock Research Information Services, Inc. and Thoroughbred Sports Network disclaim responsibility for the consequences, if any, of such errors, but would appreciate being called to their attention.
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