Immediately after I rail the second line of adderall the bartender, a lanky, hipster barber neck tattoo, leans in and yells, “Do it in the bathroom!” He has dreamy eyes but I yell back, “You’re sweet. Maybe later!” I give him a wink and spin around. It’s a bar in the financial district called The Straight Line. I’ve successfully found the most Wall Street white guy bar in Los Angeles in order to prep for my review of Vampires Kiss. I brought a baggie of crushed up adderall, some amyl nitrate, three condoms, paper clips and fake vampire teeth. I’m wearing some semblance of a suit that I could put together from Goodwill (The Kill Pretty budget leaves something to be desired.) I look like an extra in a bad Wolf of Wall Street sequel. I’m doing research, real journalism. Anything to rationalize my new found adderall habit.