Jesus, that’s a lot of words for a beer name. What happened to the good ol’ days, when we’d call it “Joe’s IPA,” (or “Frank’s,” or even “Jessica’s,” I’m open-minded). Back then, a man had pride in his work. Didn’t go hiding behind no hoity-toity references to the most caucasian neighborhood in the world’s most caucasian non-Wisconsin city.

Procured this bad motherfucker yesterday, right after the American Craft Beer Fest. Me and lady split early, partially because she got punching drunk quicker than usual, but also because the line up was a goddamn snooze. Row 34 wasn’t open until later, but–miracle of miracles–Trillium was actually fucking open!

You remember in the mid-aughts, when every couple of months some moron would try saying Three Floyds burned down, or that they moved to Winnipeg, or that the Gary, Indiana zoo bought a pack of tigers on the cheap that turned out to be heavily tattooed, steroid-laden Thai teenagers who ran amuck all through Northwest Indiana, burned down the Floyds, and forced the owners to move operations to Winnipeg? That’s kind of literally been happening to Trillium. All sorts of shut-downs and restrictions and weird ticky tacky bullshit limiting my ability to actually walk in an buy beer.

Anyhow, they were open. And busy, as usual. And gigantically friendly, as usual. They couldn’t pour samples for some godforsaken reason, but GDHFPPA seemed the hypiest of their available bombers.

Pours out thick as a banana smoothie. Smells of dense, dark hops. Big punch of mango dulled out by aggressive yeast spiciness. Tastes good, but not much like I’ve heard it described elsewhere. Nice balance bewteen dry and fruity hop nodes, very clean finish with a wee bit of mango lingering on the back of my tongue.