issue 255

One of a city’s defining features, at least in my eyes, is the quality of its nightlife. There isn’t much I like more than a cute outfit, good music and a great place to go dancing.
So let’s compare. My favorite place to go in Oakland was this Irish Pub, McNally’s. It was green on the outside and on one of the oldest streets in the city, College Ave. Inside there was a huge stone fireplace, much appreciated on those cold, wet days of the rainy season. There was bumper pool, a game I had never heard of before and still have never mastered, a chess set on the back porch and posters everywhere. There was even a little tiki hut outside in the alleyway with Christmas lights and a television.

My crew and I were friends with the bartenders. We went there, on average, at least once a week. Even more so before we moved across town to Jack London. Tony, an old Irish man who had come to America at sixteen, was my favorite part of the experience. He knew more sexual innuendos than any other person in the world. And he could put any guy to shame any day of the week with his sly jokes and rapid-fire wit. He was affectionate with all the girls, and the most genuine, caring person you could ever expect to find. Everyone loved him. He probably had about twenty-three girlfriends, not to mention his actual girlfriend.

Tony told us about his life. He told us about losing his son. About coming to America and the hardships he faced in lieu of that transition. He told us about his broken first marriage. He was open with us, and he could read any one of us just as easily. So, he also gave us advice.
One time, Tony took my friend and me upstairs to the apartment above the bar. It was where the original owner of the bar, McNally, had lived. Now it doubled as an office and a place for too-drunk, close friends to crash. Although you couldn’t have paid me to crash up there; it was creepy as hell.

On the street just below, underneath the concrete sidewalk, was a tiny tombstone for Bill McNally, the original owner. He had been buried there back before the concrete existed, back before the buildings had turned into row houses, and there was still space for a grave. And there they had laid him, right outside his home and livelihood, his bar. That’s where he stayed, all these years, but almost a century later, a lot has changed.

Now all that was left was the small brass plate that marked his spot, just in front of the bar’s addition. My friend and I stood in the tiny room in the upstairs apartment, looking down onto the tombstone. I could swear a chill was passing through the walls and I could feel Bill McNally standing there with us, probably with a pint in his hand. We scurried out. Only one other time did I go back up there, and never again did I go in that room. No need to disturb the dead.

I loved McNally’s. When I think about Oakland and what I did for fun, that’s the first thing that comes to mind. It’s practically the only thing that comes to mind. McNally’s was awesome, but that’s where it ended for me. There was no dancing at McNally’s, either. Sure, you could have danced to the Jukebox, which we did on more than one occasion. But an Irish pub is not exactly what one thinks of when thinking about dancing.

Dancing in Oakland was almost impossible to come by. We finally found the Ruby Room, which was a retro throwback with low ceilings, a stone bar and red lights. There was a DJ and a tiny dance floor, but it was hardly used. And the music selection just wasn’t exactly my cup of tea. I remember on multiple occasions asking the DJ to play a certain song, and he would never have them. He would just look at me, surrounded by his vintage vinyls of the nineties, and say,

“Yeah, that really is a great song. I should get that.” Well, duh.

No, Jacksonville is different. Jacksonville’s nightlife far surpasses that which I found in the cities by the Bay. Even San Francisco seemed to fall short, and the commute was enough to make us forgo the venture all together. BART only ran until 12:30 AM and you still had to drive to and from the stations. It was redonkulous.

But Jacksonville offers me a number of choice options almost every night of the week. The Village Voice even recently sent one of their writers to come down for a show. We’ve come that far. We are worthy of a plane ticket. The writer went to TSI, one of my personal favorite dancing spots. I also like The Pearl, Eclipse, and Square One (on Wednesdays) for the awesome DJ’s who always play the best songs and always have what I request. The guy labeled the scene as “NYC wannabe.” Well, I can settle for that. At least we are emulating the best. Not bad, if you ask me. I’m sure it had something to do with the well-dressed hipsters, pushing their way into that fashion forward category despite limited availability. We just don’t have as many great stores. Yet. But the music is awesome. And the beer is pretty cheap. People are just ready to have a good time and dance.

Not that Jacksonville has made it there, but it’s getting closer. The art scene here is exploding and it shows in this creative nightlife. It’s not just my niche that is a good niche, there are plenty of niches for everyone.

There may not be a Tony or McNally’s here, but I don’t think I’m settling.