Name that song.

I went through a fairly significant hard rock phase during my teenage years — the music, not the restaurant. (Though what child of the 80’s didn’t own a Hard Rock Cafe t-shirt sometime during the 90’s?)

One of my favorite bands at the time was called Godsmack (oh, would my mother-in-law love to hear that), and a particular favorite song of theirs was called Voodoo.

Who am I kidding? I still like that song and get a secret thrill whenever I hear it unexpectedly. It takes me right back to sweaty outdoor concerts at Westfair Amphitheater and sneaking into the VIP tent for free beer and then wishing I’d done no such thing when it came time to use the port-o-potties.

And although I’m pretty sure the song is about heroin, something I’ve never tried, it always makes me think of black magic — something I probably did try at one time or another… likely around the time The Craft was released on VHS.

I wanted to look just like Sarah Bailey.

Though I never understood what any of them saw in Chris. Skeet Ulrich so wasn’t my type.

Anyway.

When Justin’s sister Becca took us on a whirlwind day trip through Portland last month, she said we had to stop at Voodoo Doughnut. It’s been featured in all kinds of publications and television shows, including a little diddy called No Reservations with Anthony Bourdain.

Not that anyone’s ever heard of him.

And of course when she mentioned it, two thoughts immediately came to mind:

1) The Godsmack song, which stayed stuck in my head for approximately 72 hours, and

2) No.

Look.

Maybe it’s un-American or something, but I don’t really like doughnuts.

Plus it was like 100-degrees outside.

Plus, Voodoo doesn’t prescribe to my preferred spelling of the word “donut,” insisting on putting the highly unnecessary “ugh” in the middle, which is exactly how that makes me feel.

Plus, there was this:

I don’t know if you can tell, but that’s a line.

And not just a straight line, but a winding, roped-off snake line.

I wanted to leave.

Justin and Becca wanted to stay. And then I realized that if Anthony said it was worth the wait, it probably was.

Sigh.

So we waited. And I took pictures of the sign…

And the sparkly brick…

And another sign…

And more sparkly brick…

And a picture of a guy taking a picture of the sign.

I was bored. Even the raunchy slogans — “The Magic is in the Hole” and “Good Things Come in Pink Boxes” — only entertained me for so long, and those are right up my alley, humor-wise.

It took about 45 minutes to reach the front, and when we did, everything happened in a blur. We were herded to the counter and prodded for our orders. Luckily, we’d had plenty of time in line to pick from the intriguing menu filled with gems like the Maple Blazer Blunt, the Cock-N-Balls, and the Old Dirty Bastard, but ultimately we went a little more low-key with the Mango Tango for me, and the Voodoo Doll doughnut for Becca and Justin.

I tried to capture some of the colorful interior as quickly as I could…

…and then we were herded back out into the sunshine.

Was it all just a dream?

Along the side of the building they have some great, shaded tables, and we were able to snag one.

At this point I was famished and probably had heat stroke, which would explain why this picture makes no sense and also is blurry:

I think they were just trying to mimic their Voodoo dolls.

There’s no other reason for the sad face because they tasted phenomenal — like all of the best desserts combined into one melty, sugary, doughy smorgasbord from Heaven.

Die, Voodoo doll — die. The voodoo doll doughnut is a raised yeast doughnut filled with raspberry jelly and topped with chocolate frosting and a pretzel stake.

My Mango Tango, a raised yeast doughnut filled with mango jelly and topped with vanilla frosting and Tang! was incredible, too — though I did feel like I might throw up by the end of it.

So. Much. Sweetness.

All-in-all, the trip to Voodoo Doughnut was well worth the line and I was proven totally, irrevocably, wrong.

And we all know that doesn’t happen very often.

I’m glad I don’t live in Portland, because the very conundrum of constantly craving these and having to work up the energy to wait in line would wreak havoc on my psyche.

Which, I guess, is kind of what Voodoo’s supposed to do.