I don’t about you but for me watching the Olympics this past week gave me a burst of desire. As part of our commitment to do better I want us to take a new path as we approach the end of summer. I want us to breeze into September beginning with a sense of “renewal”.
We tax our bodies and minds to the point that we don’t even realize how much of a daily strain we place on ourselves. Just a simple half hour for yourself or even 20 minutes per day 3-4 times a week will rejuvenate all that we take away and add years to our life.
I have included the link for you to get started:
On another note “Read one thousand books, travel ten thousand miles” here is a great read to do just that a good friend of mine has an uncle that is the author of this book an end of summer must have:
The Trust by Norb Vonnegut
BOOKS OF THE TIMES | New York Times
Stocks and Shell Games Down South – ‘The Trust’ by Norb Vonnegut
By JANET MASLIN
Published: July 15, 2012
Norb Vonnegut is the seriously under appreciated author of three glittery thrillers about fiscal malfeasance. This may not sound like a red-hot franchise, but he has made it one. With “Top Producer” (2009), “The Gods of Greenwich” (2011) and now “The Trust,” he is three for three in his own improbably sexy genre.
Mr. Vonnegut dreams up diabolically elegant business crimes, then sends smart-talking characters to follow the money. He draws upon his own Wall Street experience (with Morgan Stanley, among other employers) to provide the sound of insider acumen. “I’ve had 14 managers over the last 10 years,” Grove O’Rourke says at the start of the new book. Grove was the stockbroker hero of “Top Producer,” and now he’s back for an encore.
“I’d call them an endangered species,” he says about his string of callous, browbeating bosses, “except the supply is endless.”
Grove is first seen in “The Trust” crouching under his desk at a Wall Street firm called SKC, to have a private phone conversation. So he’s glad to escape these confines when this book throws temptation his way. After a sailing “accident” kills Palmer Kincaid, Grove’s client and mentor, Grove is invited to become a trustee of Kincaid’s Palmetto Foundation. This philanthropic organization is based in Charleston, S.C., one of the very picturesque destinations that “The Trust” finds time to visit. Sullivan’s Island and the Turks and Caicos Islands are others.
A lot will happen to Grove during his Palmetto adventure. He will eventually come back to SKC bruised and bloodied. When he does, his colleagues are typically solicitous. “Nice face, Grove,” one says. Another asks, “Did Goldman” — as in Goldman Sachs — do that?”
But at the genteel and very Southern Palmetto, the only other trustees turn out to be Kincaid’s trophy wife, JoJo, and daughter, Claire. This gives Grove a swing vote. That will be important once he figures out how risky the Palmetto Foundation’s activities really are. “Five to 10,” he says to JoJo at one point. “Percent?” she asks. “Years,” he says.
Mr. Vonnegut further revs up “The Trust” by going beyond Palmetto’s questionable business dealings. He also throws in a Catholic charity that turns out to be financing an adult porn superstore in Fayetteville, N.C. The angry burghers of the local community near the store are represented by Biscuit Hughes, a tubby lawyer who is as much fun as his name.
Biscuit, who will eventually join forces with Grove, tries to track down the store’s owners. He does it with the white-collar cleverness that is Mr. Vonnegut’s specialty. Going straight for the owners will get him nowhere. And Biscuit knows it. So he ferrets out the C.P.A.’s who filed each investor’s Form 990 (“Return of Organization Exempt From Income Tax”) with the I.R.S. The accountant for something called the Catholic Fund is particularly blunt when it comes to his client’s connection to a porn retailer. He asks if Biscuit wants to buy the business. “Everything is on the table,” the laughably pious accountant says, “when children’s lives are at stake.”
There’s enough novelty to this plot to set “The Trust” apart from garden-variety business thrillers, the ones in which Bernard Madoff stand-ins run Ponzi schemes. Anyway, Mr. Vonnegut is just getting started. Soon Grove is dealing with a priest of the Maryknoll order who makes big-money deals with Palmetto for the sake of maimed Filipino orphans — or so he says. But the Manila Society for Children at Risk turns out to be one more part of a complex and devious shell game.
One of the book’s neatest tricks is Grove’s way of using an analytics Web site, to see how much online traffic the dubious-sounding charities attract. When he finds out that the charities aren’t popular enough to account for the sums being donated, he knows that he’s digging in the right direction.
As he narrates “The Trust,” Grove throws in jaundiced asides about how Wall Street does business. Mr. Vonnegut may or may not know whereof he speaks, but it helps that he explains stockbrokers while using the royal “we.” When a broker signs a noncompete agreement, “it’s like enlisting in the Marines,” he writes, “except we make more money, and nobody shoots at us.” As a rule in dealing with clients, “every stockbroker knows how to say one thing and do another.”
Another of Mr. Vonnegut’s favorite ploys is writing about how families like the Kincaids (or, in “The Gods of Greenwich,” anyone with an art collection and a 27-bathroom house) spend money. This is money-p*rn beach reading, after all. “With $10 million you fly first-class,” he says. “With $50 million you fly private, NetJets or one of its competitors. With $200 million you’re wondering where to park your Citation X in Monte Carlo.”
Inventive as most of it is, “The Trust” does fall back on some ho-hum conventions of the action thriller. So Grove finds himself in physical jeopardy, and Mr. Vonnegut’s writing style takes a temporary dive. (“His eyes widened. He leered at me, his smile sadistic.” “Suddenly, my face became his speed bag.”) But “The Trust” keeps clichés to a minimum. And even the taunting has snap. (“You know what whoosh money is?” “Whoosh it were still here.”) When the prime villain in this story starts bragging, the battle cry is this: “You’ll never untangle my spaghetti.”
Quick literary note: This Mr. Vonnegut a distant cousin of the better-known one. Quick psychiatric note: In each of Norb Vonnegut’s earlier books a person was devoured by a carnivore of another species. This time the kinky torment involves Great Stuff Big Gap Filler, the foaming sealant. The brand name is mentioned. The foam is put to killer use. Product placement doesn’t get much worse than this.