#hophouse

[slumped-in-the-arms-of-fiction]

Taggity tag!

I was tagged by @enoughtotemptme and @hunter-gatherer-stuff in two different tag games so why not make a massive post to save me spamming your dashes!

Favorite colors: greens (sage, forest, Kelly, phthalo – ad infinitum), and blues (sky, cornflower, Prussian, lapis – anything)

Relationship status: in a relationship for 12 years. No marriage, no kids, no problems LMAO

3 favorite foods: pickles, Bulgogi from the Kimchi Hophouse, pretty much any non-traditional-flavoured crisps (pickled onion, roast chicken, BBQ)

Top 3 shows: The Office (US), Parks & Rec, Buffy

Top 3 characters: Eddie Munson, Leslie Knope, Spike

Song stuck in my head: Stargazer, Rainbow

Last movie watched: Broker (Song Kang-ho brings such empathy and life to characters)

Last thing I googled: phthalo to make sure I spelled it correctly 💀

Last Song I Listened To: Black Sheep, Metric

Dream trip: Japan (again, though different places than the first time I went – had a 2nd trip booked in 2020 that we had to cancel for obvious reasons)

Currently watching: I'm not watching anything (currently in Hellcheer writing mode) but plan on getting stuck into Mando 2. And I need to watch The Last of Us (don't @ me, I know I do)

Currently reading: chronically bad at reading rn (except for fic), though the second book in the Locked Tomb series is collecting dust on my beside table 🙃

Current obsession: Hellcheer (surprise!) – I literally have zero focus for anything else

Uhhmmmm, I tag @wellread-redhead @eddie4lyfe @serasvictoria @justhere4thevibez - I appreciate there's a lot there, so answer what you want LOL

[craffbeertimes]

“Jester King Brewery Oregon Hophouse Beer Review” #craftbeer #beer

[grandboute]

Super journée... Super apero... #hopHouse #lager #13 #openGate #brewery #ireland #dublin #doubleHopped #irish #biere #malt #brasserie #houblon #bier #instabeer #beer #jusDeHoublon #instapero #apero #irishBeer #instamousse #mousse #instapicole #picole #beerstagram https://www.instagram.com/p/Bz6Dq2jITBs/?igshid=sqtu04rg002o

[theredwidows]

Tomorrow’s lunch done✔️ Dishes done ✔️ Washing-dry machine On ✔️ ... Need a beer and something else but that’s another story. #hophouse #lager #beer #13 #hophouse13 #guinness @guinness @hophouse13 (at North Finchley) https://www.instagram.com/p/Brf9NKGl6Ww/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=18jklrnd2sw90

[myphotomyday]

[lcsstngl]

So good

[travismoet]

Hop on over to @hophouseharlem and Spice things up just a bit! #hophouseharlem #harlemeats #forkyeah #LINGUINEFRADIAVOLO #hophouse #harlemrestaurants #nyc #manhattan #itravelforfood #nyceats #pasta #travels #foodselfie #foodporn #makeitspicy #shrimp #mussels #eaternyc #insideharlem #foodandwine #faverestaurants #seafood #chill #drinks #newyorkcity #foodie #blessthecook #🔥 (at Hop House Harlem) https://www.instagram.com/p/B4Ea_RIpK60/?igshid=1ur0qefc28kic

[martinyy]

Hydrated or trenched #nobrainer here is it? 🍺 cheers #rain #actually #pouringrain #londonweather #walkinginpuddles #thunderstorm #chiswick #london #westlondon #beer #safeinthepub #hophouse13 #hophouse #pubgarden #beergarden #lovelyendofday #tuesdayevening #tuesdayeve (at Connolly's Chiswick) https://www.instagram.com/p/B3FTtg7hKMF/?igshid=kz87ghx97kou

[soulofmercury]

cheers to love, life and family • #drinks #friday #fridaynight #family #photo #art #life #aesthetic #goldenhour #hophouse #sol #personal #night in #love (at Blessington Lakes) https://www.instagram.com/p/B2pGyXVgOUi/?igshid=1vkl6p8mmm5tz

[polcavabeer]

Hop House 13, dorada cristalina con un dedo de espuma con buena retencion, aromas a malta con toques afrutados, equilibrada y refrescante, cuerpo ligero y carbonaracion moderada. ♨️ Lager ⛽ 4,10% 🇬🇧 Hop House 13, golden crystalline with a foam finger with good retention, aromas of malt with fruity touches, balanced and refreshing, light body and moderate carbonation. #beertime #beerhunter #beers #beerphoto #guinness #hophouse #lager #beer #bier #cervesa #cerveza #cerveja #birra #biere #öl #mitypa #starköl #ilovebeer #beerlover #beerporn #beerstagram #beerstagram #craftnotcrap #craftbeer #beerblog #beerblogger #ireland🇮🇪 https://www.instagram.com/p/B11ydjpiFpC/?igshid=17m3t6oah5djv

[supranatural85]

🐝 #isawabee🙈🙊 🐝 🐝 #enjoy my #hophouse 🍺 #13 🍻 (at Ship Ashore,, Willen, Milton Keynes) https://www.instagram.com/p/B1Tw_YpBFN0t77KjRKre58NQXdoQ_q2giAYWjY0/?igshid=1iui6d111aq3r

[pimpitupoff]

✖️BEER ✖️ On continue le tour des bières aujourd’hui, la veille de la St-Patrick ! 🍀 La bière blonde Hop House 13 est une bière de la marque Guinness, qui est elle aussi faite à Dublin ! Est-ce que vous l’avez déjà vue dans des bars français ? 🍻 PS: l’abus d’alcool est dangereux pour la santé #stpatricksday #saintpatricksday #paddys #paddysday #hophouse #hophouse13 #beer #alcohol #bière #irishbeer #dublinbeer #ireland #dublin #lager #murrays #guinness (à Murrays Bar O Connell Street) https://www.instagram.com/p/BvE6naTj5A_/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=172r87y19ptdd

[butch-snufkin]

@tsupaniku​

mutuals do this with me

[dragonrajafanfiction]

So uhm, Ruri if it's not a problem 🧍(for the writing thingy)

Hop House, Jazz Club, L.A.

The club was tucked in the middle of a historic Los Angeles neighborhood, dimly lit by sputtering street lamps. In the alley, black garbage bags sheltered three homeless people who peered out at the long 90s era tan and blue-grey Buicks that rolled up, flashing white stripes on their tires. Old black men in their seventies, wearing sharp suits, ties and fedoras got out in groups of three and four, loudly laughing at the lively conversations they were having in the car. The door was left open for them and they were invited inside, removing their hats and tossing their coats over their shoulder.

The Hop House should have been labeled as a historic building by the city metrics, but history was written by people other than the owners of this place. Signed photos of Duke Ellington, Cab Calloway, and Charlie Parker decorated the walls. These men eulogized in movies and popular culture, but the men filing in now had come to pay homage to their actual persons. In their  seventies, eighties, and nineties, some could even boast that they’d heard these legends in person. From a young age, they’d came to the Hophouse to listen to jazz, drink beer and strong spirits, smoke liberally and listen to some of the finest musicians the world had to offer. 

At this point, it was almost a private club. They put out no advertisements, there was no sign beyond the plain street address, there was no schedule for the artists. If you knew where the place was and who tended to play there, that meant that you were part of the club’s history. The audience’s wrinkled and mole-spotted faces was their price of admission.

To receive an invitation from this club was just as legendary. They were simply phone calls asking for a name, “Are you so-and-so?” Then they explained that they saw them play in person at some venue. And it was always in-person. The bookie was too ancient to bother learning how to use the internet. The invitation was “We’d would like you to play at the hop house at such-and-such a day and time. Don’t be late.”

At the very mention of the Hop House, those who knew or who bothered to investigate would understand what an honor this was, that they would be playing on a stage that hosted the legends of jazz before people who grew up with jazz and could appreciate it. They trembled like athletes before the Olympic trials. Just being invited was an honor that only an idiot would refuse…

You were no idiot. You walk into the open door and the smell of sweet cigar tobacco, blended with menthol cigarettes and booze. The carpet was bright red and gold despite the constant pollution that rained down on it every night. There were white covered tables stuffed into every available space, but the waiters and waitresses navigated the network of gaps with practiced ease, dressed in tight tuxedo vests and bow ties, their hair slicked and pinned back. Walking in here was like walking into a time machine and immediately you feel transported back to the 1930s.

The men who walked in before you had already taken their seats, pulled out a weathered deck of cards and started shuffling them without so much as breaking a pause in their conversation. Then they dealt out a quick hand for a round of spades.

“Yo, Piano. Over here.”

You turn. A man was dressed in a well fitted black suit, his coiled salt and pepper hair mounded like a cloud on his head. He looked slender and had bright dark brown eyes. This was the bookie and though aged at 87, he looked more like a man in his fifties. He smiled with bright straight teeth. You remembered that he was at a concert of yours, seated in the front row as you played your set. You felt empowered, on fire as you had set yourself into the melody. Your fingers tickled up and down the piano, but the ones to react were your audience who whooped and hollered. But it wasn’t enough, you teased them with a brief key change and dove back into the melody with a vengeance, like pulling them into a fierce kiss. 

The audience screamed with glee and you had to play louder to be heard over them. This man had looked at you with a stern expression the entire concert, not reacting at all. When the set had finished and you were bowing to a standing ovation, he remained seated, staring at you intensely.

That intensity stayed with you and when he told you where he was from, your heart beat further. You were not fooled by his charming smile. The Hop House expected no less than perfection out of its talent.

You’ve been playing piano as long as you can remember. Your house was hung with photos of your grandfather and great-uncles who traveled the highways playing anywhere who would pay them. Though time went on and the band broke up, the tradition of music remained in the house. Her father worked as a night repairman for the city government, yet owned a piano. It was you who sat down and picked up a piano learning book so old the pages were falling out of the staples and started to play.

Soon you were learning pieces by heart, blending them together and making your own tunes. Your father never got you any lessons, he just gave you music to learn and you learned them all by heart. It wasn’t until you were in the fifth grade that you learned that what you were playing was called Jazz. Specifically, a type of Jazz known as BeBop. Like different languages, BeBop was just one way of playing the same song. It was characterized by the manner that one note led to another. Instead of playing the tune straight, it meandered towards the notes like a river, flowing by its own intuition and internal logic. There were no ‘wrong notes’ in this kind of jazz… unless the note was wrong in your heart. If your heart was not in it, every note was the wrong note.

So there was no room for nerves, for stiffness. You knew this, and yet looking at this man, all your inborn talent and confidence seemed inadequate. He’d seen you, and hundreds of musicians just like you.

Instead of taking you to a fancy VIP room, he took you out through a weathered yellow swinging door, turning into a hallway just outside the kitchen with no lights save a sputtering bare bulb. He opened another hollow door to an office full of file cabinets and a scratched up wooden desk. There are green plastic chairs but you stay standing, watching him walk around the desk and open a drawer. “I wanted to give you this before you performed.”

He reached in and handed you a photograph.

You look at it and instantly experience a shock. In the photograph was your father and the bookie, your father at the piano, smiling in a handsome three piece suit and shining dress shoes. “He played the Hop House in 1969. He was one of the greats.”

“He … never told me he played here.” You say, in complete awe.

“That was the kind of guy he was. He played here once, and quit the jazz game all together. He said he’d never met a better audience and probably never would.”

You accept the photograph. “He died of cancer three years ago. There were a few strangers at the funeral I didn’t recognize. They were from here?”

“You can go out there and see for yourself. I couldn’t make it. But I had to at least go and see you.”

You feel a sudden weight lifted. This was no longer just an honor and a privilege to play with the greats. It was if your father had appeared from heaven to offer you a hand to come on up to take your place among the saints of music. You fill with joy, like the sun was shining on your face. “Thank you.”

The bookie grinned and he was no longer threatening. That aura was gone, the velvet rope had parted for you.

You were the VIP now.

The moment you stepped out on the stage you were the true center of attention. The tables were crammed so close you could smell the mint liqueur wafting from the drinks on them. A haze had settled over the venue. You take your seat and glance at the drummer.

You begin to play and the crowd quiets. You were tapping out a tune familiar to them. It was the tune your father liked to play “All the Things that You are.” It was a soft, sentimental tune with an almost marching band-like beat that you played around, weaving the notes like vines around an iron fence. Soon the audience was present. They had already relaxed, accepting that this young artist did know where they were going with the sound and they only had to be along for the ride, a scenic route of hills and valleys, loud and soft notes. They didn’t have to make sense to outside ears, this was music all their own.

Thus introduced you paused and then glanced at the drummer, this time rattling out notes like a freight train, but the experienced drummer knew exactly what you were putting out there and leaped in with a rapidfire beat like the chuffing of a smoke stack. The audience was now nodding their head, glancing at each other and smiling.

You’re smiling too. You felt like you could play forever. Your father was right. This was like no place you’d ever been. You’d found your people. You’d gone home. You were speaking and you were understood. There was not a single disinterested person there. You gave and they thanked you. And you just wanted to keep on giving.

Soon it was you the one whooping and hollering from a cheerful heart, launching into tune after tune. Throwing out this and that to the audience. All of your admittedly brief years of study was being laid out on the stage, since you first lifted out the wood panel cover over the keys at your childhood home and straightened the dog eared pages of the ratty piano lesson book all the way to the day.

At the end of the set, you wave to the audience and bow and they nod and hands as knotted as treebark and dangling with golden rings and you walk off the stage, head up and eyes straight. The bookie is waiting for you.

“Good job up there. Real good. In fact… there’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

Your heart leaps into your throat. Who could that person possibly be. “There are a few clubs over seas and we got someone who came here today and wanted to see what we had to offer. He liked you.” He was leading you backstage towards the actual performers area. The place was so small he only had to open a single door to be led to the dressing room. It was draped with old feather boas and a gaudy pink vanity crouched in one corner. All was all in dark paneling but that only served to make the person in the room seem more brilliant.

The bright red kimono they wore was long enough to rest on the floor. You’d seen this kind of kimono before in period dramas like Memoirs of a Geisha, but this was the first time you’d ever seen one in person. The dim light revealed darker colored red flowers in this pool of red silk. It covered a slender body with an elegant snatched waist and thin shoulders.

You’d seen pretty people before. Angelina Jolie with her gorgeous high cheekbones. Gal Gadot with her bright dark eyes. This person standing before you looks to be a man but you can only compare his features to beautiful women you’ve seen. His black hair is long, down his back, even though lifted in a high ponytail.

“Mr. Kazama.”

You hesitantly introduce yourself.

“You played beautifully tonight.” Mr. Kazama whispered.

You turn your head slightly as you start to hear the sounds of a long guitar coming from where you just stood.

“Your father died recently. I came to give condolences and also an invitation to play in Japan.”

“Japan?” You can barely keep your mouth open. It wasn’t enough that you had the best concert of your life. You had to stand before this stranger and accept an invitation to Japan?

“I know it may seem like too much. I’m sure you have your own concerns.”

You glance again towards the stage. This far flung place out in the middle of nowhere that held your past and had melded its way into your heart without you even knowing it. It was like this whole experience like a jazz note - unplanned and yet as full of intention and design as all of Creation. You turn back to him and smile.

“What concerns?”

[nwbeerguide]

By only three votes, Baerlic Brewing's Punk Rock IPA named Best Oregon-Brewed IPA by Hawthorne Hophouse.

Press Release

image courtesy Baerlic Brewing

Every January, The Hawthorne Hophouse holds their Annual IPA Challenge to determine the Best Oregon-Brewed IPA as voted on by over 1,000 of their customers in a blind flight tasting. Out of the 12 Oregon-brewed IPAs in the Challenge—narrowed down from 36 in December—our Punk Rock Time IPA was voted Best IPA by just 3 votes!  "To think that PRT stood out among those 12 beers in a blind tasting—where the consumer doesn't know the beer or the brewery—makes us really proud. It's so great to get that level of feedback based not our size or popularity or marketing budget, but on the quality of the beer itself. As a small brewery, this is really meaningful to have stood out as the crowd favorite on a list of what we consider some of the most foundational IPAs in Oregon—if not the country!"- Ben Parsons, Baerlic Brewing Co.

This year's Competition included past IPA Challenge winners Breakside Wanderlust, Barley Brown's Pallet Jack, and Migration Straight Outta Portland, as well as Von Ebert, Pfriem, Ecliptic, Sun River, Ferment, Montavilla, Ex Novo and Level. Thanks to all of these breweries for making some of the best IPAs available and for all the liquid inspiration over the years! ABOUT THE BEER: Punk Rock Time IPA is brewed with Weyermann malts and Oregon grown Strata hops from Indie Hops and Amarillo and Chinook from Crosby—tropical, fruity and piney IPA with just enough angst to keep us determined. “This is not the time to be dismayed, this is punk rock time. This is what Joe Strummer trained you for.” – Henry Rollins. Punk Rock Time IPA is a past winner of medals in the 2019 Best of Craft Beer Awards and the 2019 Oregon Beer Awards and is available in 16oz cans and draft in Oregon and southwest Washington.

from Northwest Beer Guide - News - The Northwest Beer Guide http://bit.ly/2HdEaoS

[ehdean]

Inebriated drawing. #treeoflife crayons are my life #hophouse (at 15th Avenue Hophouse) https://www.instagram.com/p/BrozJPDBPi3/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=lwd3rl5udv08