LUCKY OR SMART EBOOK

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Editorial Reviews. From Publishers Weekly. For anyone looking to spend an hour or so Lucky Or Smart? site Store · site eBooks · Business & Money. Lucky Or Smart?: Fifty Pages for the First-Time Entrepreneur and millions of other books are available for instant access. view site eBook | view Audible. Lucky or Smart? book. Read 46 reviews from the world's largest community for readers. At twenty-seven, Bo Peabody was an Internet multi-millionaire. In t.


Lucky Or Smart Ebook

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I was smart enough to realize I was getting lucky. The number-one killer of start- ups is when entrepreneurs confuse “being lucky” with “being smart.” You must. Bo founded his first company, Tripod, in his dorm room at Williams. Then he sold it to Lycos in the late s and made a fortune on Lycos. During my sophomore year, Dick Sabot, a very smart Oxford-trained Luck is also a big part of business life and perhaps the biggest part of.

It has harsh truths put too bluntly. Its been a book, i pick up often and just read a little and put it back into my library. If you are entrepreneurial you will love it. Here is a slightly longer review: Feb 18, Kevin Shockey rated it really liked it.

I thought it was going to be simpleton stupid, but it was actually pretty interesting. Bo makes some decent points: In the end it helped me see some mistakes I'm making Jul 10, Cristobal rated it it was amazing Shelves: Short but full of ideas about what makes entrepreneurs succeed.

Lucky Or Smart? - by Bo Peabody

It is both brains and luck. And as the author says it is in large part having the brains to figure out that you're lucky so that you know when to walk away. May 08, Todd rated it it was amazing Shelves: This book was included in my book: Oct 04, Ponnusamy K rated it really liked it.

He is describing, How B student and A student will behave, Why the 95 Year old lady applied divorce after 75 years. What Good to Great says to entrepreneurs. I really enjoyed this book; it was very entertaining. Having worked at one of Bo's companies and eaten at his restaurants it hit home.

I only wish it were pages rather than Sep 12, Jeff Horn rated it really liked it. It's always good to be smart enough to know when your lucky. The challenge is to know the difference while it is occurring. Aug 11, Larry Ball rated it really liked it.

The only truly valuable review for this book can come from fellow entrepreneurs. I am not one by Peabody's definition. As a non- entrepreneur, I found the book highly entertaining and well structured. It was also concise with little fluff. Great work Bo! Mar 04, Shhhhh Ahhhhh rated it it was amazing.

Well-balanced book on entrepreneurship. Oct 20, Rachid Zidani rated it really liked it. Now I know, among other things, to ask of all the other books on my biz reading list whether the book is for entrepreneurs or for managers.

Feb 16, Naomi Ruth rated it liked it Shelves: A short little book with some inspiring thoughts on being smart enough to know when you're being lucky.

Apr 21, Mary Kelly rated it really liked it. A quick, light read that has a couple of useful notes. Reign in your ego, don't believe your own press and recognize when you have just plain been lucky.

Feb 22, Alberto Lopez rated it liked it. While I am very interested in the concept that much business success is tied to luck, I found the book somewhat scattered and lacking rigor. In the end, though, the author brought it back to the importance not of being lucky but of being aware of such luck when success in business happens. Oct 01, Praveen rated it it was amazing. This books asks the entrepreneur to focus on few core skills like attracting and keeping the best minds to work for you for low salary.

Because you are a start up company, the author encourages the reader to acquire the needed funding by repeatedly calling the angel investors or loan sharks even while you hear the word "NO". These are his following statements: It is a decent book, but the author misses on very important topics like New or rapidly developing industries, whether glamorous or not, very often provide more opportunities to get rich than established sectors.

The three reasons for this are availability of risk capital, ignorance and the power of a rising tide. The author does not mention any of the above practical steps. Luck is the most important in life from my opinion. The filthy rich are not gods. They are men and women who put on their underwear in the morning pretty much as we do.

It is true that they were in the right place at the right time and did the right thing. Feb 09, Ali Alkhudhair rated it it was amazing. Fun short read about entrepreneurship. Luck is not a mere chance, rather than a probability you can improve.

The book is fun read about many stories that the author went through. Jul 09, Rob rated it did not like it. Pretty empty business book that falls more into the "generic motivation" category than the business category.

The "secrets" that the author alludes to are basically: In fact, Bo actually says that if you ARE smart, you won't make a very good entrepreneur. This is probably big news for Elon Musk and company. Jan 06, Lamec Mariita rated it really liked it. This book is not just a business book. I recommend it for everyone. It's very enjoyable with many wonderful little nuggets and life-lessons.

If you are looking to start up a business on your own and think that you'll make it work cause your smart or you'll make it work because everything just works out for you, then you should read this book. I was very impressed with the quality of information, and how the author really brings his entrepreneurial experience alive. The book makes its points well This book is not just a business book. The book makes its points well and has compelling stories that illustrate the ideas.

Such an amazing little book. Mar 01, Shekiaya rated it really liked it. Solid book! Only a few pages. We're thinking of starting a smoothie business in Pittsburgh so we decided to read this book among others. It was definitely worth the read because it was so short. For that reason, it's hard to have a strong opinion about it. Overall, I'd say just read it if you're thinking about it-- you don't know what you don't know.

If you hate it, not much is lost. If you love it, much is gained. Sep 10, Sid rated it liked it. A short book. Pretty decent overall, but not much depth to it. It is mostly a collection of anecdotes which are quite entertaining and are probably the best part of the book. The principles themselves are quite generic and you've probably read them elsewhere - surround yourself with bright people etc. Feb 19, Joseph Draschil rated it it was ok.

Some interesting ideas, and definitely a fresh perspective. However, the entire book is anecdotal, and therefore biased and potentially skewed to a single perspective. The author admits as much in a few parts. As I said, there were some good nuggets, but they are located among a lot of other content that could be dangerous if taken at face value.

Jul 08, Craig Kelley rated it liked it. This review has been hidden because it contains spoilers. I was wearing soft-soled moccasins with which I tried to land wild kicks. Everything missed or merely grazed him.

I had never fought before, was chosen last in gym. Somehow, I don't remember how, I made it back on my feet. I remember biting him, pushing him, I don't know what. Then I began to run. Like a giant who is all powerful, he reached out and grabbed the end of my long brown hair. He yanked it hard and brought me down onto my knees in front of him.

That was my first missed escape, the hair, the woman's long hair. He reached around to his back pocket to draw out a knife.

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I struggled still, my hair coming out painfully from my skull as I did my best to rip myself free of his grip. I lunged forward and grabbed his left leg with both arms, throwing him off balance and making him stagger. I would not know it until the police found it later in the grass, a few feet away from my broken glasses, but with that move, the knife fell from his hands and was lost.

Then it was fists. Maybe he was angry at the loss of his weapon or at my disobedience. Whatever the reason, this marked the end of the preliminaries. I was on the ground on my stomach. He sat on my back. He pounded my skull into the brick. He cursed me. He turned me around and sat on my chest. I was babbling. I was begging. Here is where he wrapped his hands around my neck and began to squeeze. For a second, I lost consciousness. When I came to, I knew I was staring up into the eyes of the man who would kill me.

At that moment I signed myself over to him. I was convinced that I would not live. I could not fight anymore. He was going to do what he wanted to me. That was it. Everything slowed down. He stood up and began dragging me over the grass by my hair. I twisted and half crawled, trying to keep up with him. Dimly, I had seen the dark entrance of the amphitheater tunnel from the path. As we neared it, and I realized it was our destination, a rush of fear ran through me.

I knew I would die. There was an old iron fence a few feet out from the tunnel entrance. It was three feet high and provided a narrow space through which you had to walk in order to enter the tunnel. As he dragged me, as I scrambled against the grass, I caught sight of that fence and became utterly convinced that if he brought me beyond this point, I would not survive. For a moment, as he dragged me across the ground, I clung feebly to the bottom of that iron fence, before a rough pull yanked me clean.

People think a woman stops fighting when she is physically exhausted, but I was about to begin my real fight, a fight of words and lies and the brain. When people talk about climbing a mountain or riding rough water, they say they became one with it, their bodies so attuned to it that they often, when asked to articulate how they did it, cannot fully explain. Inside the tunnel, where broken beer bottles, old leaves, and other, as yet indiscriminate, things littered the ground, I became one with this man.

He held my life in his hand. Those who say they would rather fight to the death than be raped are fools. I would rather be raped a thousand times. You do what you have to. I did. I was shivering uncontrollably. It was cold out and the cold combined with the fear, with the exhaustion, made me shake from head to toe. He dumped my purse and bag of books in the corner of the sealed-off tunnel.

My sister does too. I looked at him. Into his eyes now, as if he was a human being, as if I could speak to him. He didn't believe me. Repeated his command. He pulled me forward by my belt until my body was up against his, which was up against the tunnel's back wall. And he drew my head forward and our lips met. My lips were pursed tightly together. He tugged harder on my belt, my body pressing up further against his. He grabbed my hair in his fist and balled it up.

He drew my head back and looked at me. I began to cry, to plead. By pleading, I had left myself open to this. Again he pulled my head back roughly. And I did. When he was satisfied, he stopped and tried to work the latch on my belt. It was a belt with a strange buckle and he couldn't figure it out. To have him let go of me, for him to leave me alone, I said, "Let me, I'll do it. When I was done, he unzipped the jeans I wore. I took that off.

He reached over to help unbutton my shirt. He fumbled. I unbuttoned the oxford-cloth shirt and, like the cardigan, I peeled it back from my body. It was like shedding feathers. Or wings.

He reached out and grabbed them -- my breasts -- in his two hands. He plied them and squeezed them, manipulating them right down to my ribs. I hope that to say this hurt isn't necessary here. And the words made me give them up, lobbing off each part of my body as he claimed ownership -- the mouth, the tongue, my breasts. I saw, among the leaves and glass, the grave. My body stretched out, disassembled, gagged, dead.

I sat first, kind of stumbled into a seated position.

He took the end of my pants and tugged. As I tried to hide my nakedness -- at least I had my underpants on -- he looked down at my body. I still feel that in that gaze his eyes lit up my sickly pale skin in that dark tunnel. Made it all -- my flesh -- suddenly horrible.

Ugly too kind a word, but the closest one. It was said in disgust, it was said in analysis. He saw what he had bagged and didn't like his catch. No matter, he would finish.

Here, I began to combine truth with fiction, using anything to try and get him to come over to my side. To see me as pitiful, for him to see me as worse off than him. Please don't do this. I'm a virgin," I said. Shaking, I crawled over and lay face up against the cold ground. He pulled my underpants off me roughly and bundled them into his hand. He threw them away from me and into a corner where I lost sight of them. I watched him as he unzipped his pants and let them fall around his ankles.

He lay down on top of me and started humping. I was familiar with this. This was what Steve, a boy I liked in high school, had done against my leg, because I would not let him do what he wanted most, which was to make love to me. With Steve I was fully dressed and so was he.

He went home frustrated and I felt safe. My parents were upstairs the whole time. I told myself Steve loved me.

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He worked away on me, reaching down to work with his penis. I stared right into his eyes. I was too afraid not to. If I shut my eyes, I believed, I would disappear. To make it through, I had to be present the whole time. He called me bitch. He told me I was dry. Stop shaking. My focus became acute. I stared harder than ever at him. He began to knead his fist against the opening of my vagina. Inserted his fingers into it, three or four at a time.

Something tore. I began to bleed there. I was wet now. It made him excited. He was intrigued. As he worked his whole fist up into my vagina and pumped it, I went into my brain. I tried, as a sort of prickly numbness took over my lower half, to recite the poems in my head.

I moved my lips.

He liked this. He started humping me again, wildly.

The base of my spine was crushed into the ground. Glass cut me on my back and behind. But something still wasn't working for him. I didn't know what he was doing. He kneeled back. Not knowing what he meant, never having done this for a lover, or read that kind of book, I raised them straight up.

My legs were like a plastic Barbie's, pale, inflexible. But he wasn't satisfied. He put a hand on each calf and pressed them out farther than I could hold. He tried again. He worked his fist. He grabbed my breasts. He twisted the nipples with his fingers, lapped at them with his tongue. Tears came out of the corners of my eyes and rolled down either cheek. I was leaving now, but then I heard sounds.

Out on the path. People, a group of laughing boys and girls, passing by. I had passed a party on my way to the park, a party to celebrate the last day of school. I looked at him; he did not hear them. This was it. I made an abrupt scream and, as soon as I did, he shoved his hand in my mouth.

Simultaneously I heard the laughter again. This time it was directed toward the tunnel, toward us. Yells and taunts.

Good-time noises. We lay there, his hand locked in my mouth and pressing down hard into my throat, until the group of well-wishers left. Moved on. My second chance at escape now gone. Things weren't going the way he planned. It was taking too long. He ordered me to stand up. Told me I could put on my panties. Used that word. I hated it. I thought it was over. I was trembling but I thought he'd had enough.

Blood was everywhere and so I thought he'd done what he'd come for. He was standing now. I was on the ground, trying to search among the filth for my clothes. He kicked me and I curled into a ball. I saw his thighs before me, the way they belled out from the knee, the thick muscles and small black hairs, and his flaccid dick.

He grabbed my head. It was small. Hot, clammy. It throbbed involuntarily at my touch. He shoved my head forward and I put it in. It touched my tongue. The taste like dirty rubber or burnt hair.

I sucked in hard. His penis still limp, he held it with two fingers and peed on me. Just a little bit. Acrid, wet, on my nose and lips. The smell of him -- the fruity, heady, nauseating smell -- clung to my skin. When he told me to close my eyes I told him I had lost my glasses, couldn't even really see him. I'm your first. He got hard enough and plunged himself inside me. He ordered me to and I wrapped my legs around his back and he drove me into the ground.

I was locked on. All that remained unpossessed was my brain. It looked and watched and cataloged the details of it all. His face, his purpose, how best I could help him. I heard more party-goers on the path, but I was far away now. He made noises and rammed it in.

Rammed it and rammed it and those on the path, those so far away, living in the world where I had lived, could not be reached by me now. It was the kind of fraternity reveler's voice that had made me feel that, as a student at Syracuse University, I might never fit in. They passed. I was staring right into his eyes. With him. He came and slumped into me. I lay under him. My heart beating wildly. My brain thinking of Olga Cabral, of poetry, of my mother, of anything. Then I heard his breathing.

Light and regular. He was snoring. I thought: Escape. I shifted under him and he woke. He looked at me, did not know who I was. Then his remorse began. I was supposed to stand up and step in.

I crawled over toward my clothes. Put my bra on as I sat on the ground. His tone was amazing to me. But I didn't stop to think of it then. All I knew was it was better than it had been.

I stood up and took my underpants from him. I put them on, almost falling for my lack of balance. I had to sit on the ground to put my pants on. I was worried about my legs. I couldn't seem to control them.

He watched me. As I inched my pants up, his tone switched. Any evidence. I lied to him. Please don't tell anyone. My mother would kill me if she knew about this.

Please," I said, "no one can know about this. My family would hate me. Please don't talk about this. I stood now and put my shirt on.

It was inside out. For me it was happening all over again. I kissed him. Did I say I had free will? Do you still believe in that?

He apologized again. This time he cried. So he wouldn't hurt me more, I needed to say the right thing. You're a good girl. You weren't lying to me. I'm sorry for what I did. I said what I had to. I would die by pieces to save myself from real death. He perked up. Looked at me. I was afraid to move without his permission. It was wrapped around my license. It was a photo ID.

New York State didn't have them yet but Pennsylvania did. I was petrified of him having my identification. Leaving with anything other than what he had: all of me, except my brain and my belongings. I wanted to leave the tunnel with both of them. He looked at it a moment longer until he was convinced. He did not take my great-grandmother's sapphire ring, which had been on my hand the whole time.

He was not interested in that kind of thing. He handed me my purse and the books I'd bought that afternoon with my mother. I pointed. I started walking. Back out over the ground, through the gate to which I'd clung a little over an hour before, and onto the brick path. Going farther into the park was the only way toward home. A moment later. I turned. I was, as I am in these pages, his. I didn't have a name other than my own to say. I had done my job. I had convinced him.

Now I walked. I didn't see a soul until I reached the three short stone steps that led from the park to the sidewalk.

On the opposite side of the street was a frat house. I kept walking. I remained on the sidewalk close to the park. There were people out on the lawns of the frat house.

A kegger party just dying out. At the place where my dorm's street dead-ended into the park, I turned and started to walk downhill past another, larger dormitory. I was aware I was being stared at.

Party-goers coming home or grinds taking in the last bit of sober air before the summer. They talked. But I wasn't there. I heard them outside of me, but like a stroke victim, I was locked inside my body.

They came up to me. Some ran, but then stepped back when I didn't respond. I was afraid of everyone. Outside, on the raised platform that surrounded Marion Dorm's front door, were people who knew me.

Knew my face if not my name. There were three floors in Marion, a floor of girls between two floors of boys. Outside now it was mostly the boys. One boy opened the outer door for me to let me pass through. Another held the inner one. I was being watched; how could I not have been? At a small table near the door was the RSA -- resident security assistant. He was a graduate student.

A small, studious Arab man. After midnight they checked ID's of anyone trying to get in. He looked at me and then hurriedly stood. I stood before him with my face smashed in, cuts across my nose and lip, a tear along my cheek. My hair was matted with leaves. My clothes were inside out and bloodied. My eyes were glazed. He waved me in. Some of the girls too. The whole dorm was still mostly awake. I walked by them. I walked down the hall and knocked on the door of my best friend Mary Alice's room.

No one. I knocked on my own, hoping for my roommate. Last, I knocked on the door of Linda and Diane, two of a group of six of us who had become friends that year. At first there was no answer. Then the doorknob turned. Inside, the room was dark. Linda was kneeling on her bed and holding the door open. I had woken her up. She had passed out. The doors were spring-hinged and so the door slammed shut.

The RSA had cared.He stood. It succeeds not just as a record of one woman's pain and healing, but as fine creative nonfiction.

When I was doing research for this book, back in Syracuse, I met a woman like this. I had to sit on the ground to put my pants on. I left the shirttails out, hoping to hide as much as possible of the jeans. Rammed it and rammed it and those on the path, those so far away, living in the world where I had lived, could not be reached by me now.

VADA from Springdale
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