As I've continued to explore the...

As I've continued to explore the clubs of the Bronx, I was obliged to check out the curiously named Al's Mr. Wedge.

I have spent time in the lowest-end clubs in Philly and New York, but, I have to say, Mr. Wedge may be a new low in terms of experience quality. I wouldn't expect much in terms of decor, of course, but the crumbling linoleum and deep grime were too sketchy to escape notice. The bathroom would have stood out in a prison film. The stage is behind a wrap-around bar, and has a number of poles along its perimeter. There are a few picnic tables scattered around the rest of the place, but I imagine things center around the bar. Everything is served in plastic cups, including bottled beer.

There were two girls ostensibly working, but they were in hiding for the first half-hour I was there. Eventually, one of them came out from the back to dance for a bit, but abruptly left the stage when the food she'd ordered arrived. I only caught a glimpse of the other girl over the course of an hour and a half, and she didn't choose to mount the stage at any point. Both of these women were fat youngish black women: big bellies, big behinds and lots of cellulite. The girl whose show I was able to observe was not what I would call a dancer, and her performance consisted of periodically bouncing up and down between trips to the patrons around the bar for tips. I was never approached by either girl for anything more than stage tips, as one continued to hide and the other became ensconced in her take-out.