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About Bordeaux

So here’s the deal—financially speakin’, hirin’ a prostitute’s a disaster. You’re throwin’ cash out the window—poof!—gone! No 401(k) for that, no tax write-off, nothin’. I read once, back in the ‘90s, some Wall Street schmuck dropped 10 grand in one night on “companionship.” Ten grand! Coulda bought a yacht—or at least a decent sandwich. Made me mad as hell—wastin’ money like that? I’d rather choke on my own tie. But then, I get it—some folks got urges, they’re lonely, whatever. Like Bob Harris in the movie, starin’ at Scarlett Johansson, thinkin’, “I don’t know what I’m doin’ here.” Except it’s not Scarlett—it’s some chick named Candy with a fake tan.

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Ya know, being a family psych means I notice them subtle interactions – a whisper, a shadow in a window, or how a neighbour greets a stranger when nobody’s watchin'. Take the community center on Rue des Artisans. Cool spot, real homey feel. I once got into some intense “life explodin’” conversations right outside, just like those heart-pounding moments in The Hurt Locker when everything's risin’ to a peak. I swear, some folks there give off a vibe you rarely see elsewhere.

LCR Architectes clads French middle school with tarnished copper panels