The standard happy hour offering at the bars in the Castro near my home is the two-for-one special or the slightly modified buy-one-get-one-for-a-dollar special.  Essentially the same thing.

In the nearly three years I’ve lived in San Francisco, I’ve realized that the twofer is evil.  I should say fully realized, because this is not news to me.  When I lived in DC, there was a trendy bar that had twofer specials at happy hour.  They didn’t even make you take both at once like they do here.  They gave you a voucher for the second so that it would be as fresh and tasty as the first.

We called it “the Evil Place.”

It was evil because it was sexy and hip and happening and full of beautiful people and it played on every American’s innate need to get a deal.   Once in, they knew none of us would walk away without using the voucher for the “free” drink.

Castro bars are a lot lower on the “hip” and “trendy” scale than the Evil Place, but after a couple of rounds no one’s particularly interested in those metrics.  They’re there to get drunk, get laid or both.

The trouble with twofers is that most people’s tipping point seems to be an odd number.  For me and some of my friends, it’s three drinks.  At three drinks, we’re just about the right amount of happy and relaxed.  We feel smart and funny and hot.  We’re confident enough to put the moves on strangers without slurring our words or falling down.  The world is bright and we’ll still be able to arise for work in the morning headache free.

But there’s that fourth drink sitting there waiting for us.  It’d be such a waste to leave it.  Besides, we’ve already paid for it – sort of.

And so it begins.  We move one cocktail past the optimal point.  Rationality goes out the window.  Charlie says, “Let’s stay for one more!”  Sounds good.  Let’s do it.  We have the fifth and the sixth that goes along with it.  “Woo!” we yell.  “This is awesome!”  We’re awesome.  “Hey!  There’s Jeff!  When was the last time we saw Jeff?  We gotta have a drink with Jeff.”  And here come numbers seven and eight.  But Jeff’s just started.  He wants another round – and he’s buying!  God, Jeff’s a great guy.  Nine!  Ten!

When we wake up there’s a rather large hole in our memory, if not our head.  Like Julie Brown in her classic “Will I Make It Through the 80’s?” we ask, “Am I at home?  Are these my clothes?  I hope my car’s all right.”  We vaguely remember a dance club.  Or was it a park?  A dance club in a park?  No, that was an episode of “True Blood.”  And when did we lose Jeff?

If it’s a work day, we drag ourselves out of bed, shower off whatever is sticking to the backs of our legs (will a Brill-O pad help?), try to evict the gerbil that crawled into our mouth and died overnight, get dressed and shamble off to the office.  Then we’ll spend the day hoping no one notices that we’ve turned the grey-green of an old copper pot and surreptitiously texting our friends to piece together the night.  (Thank God!  Jeff’s OK and the sticky stuff on our legs is orange juice.)

For me, a night like that means laying off the sauce for quite a while.  I’m either an embarrassment to my Irish fore-fathers because I handle liquor so badly or I’m just like them.  I haven’t decided whether or not we’re supposed to be good drinkers or just eager ones.  Some of my pals can start again the next night, God love ’em.  I’m happy to have a strong internal monitor.

Since Evil Place benders are more an activity for twentysomethings, I’ve come to the conclusion that the twofer is not fer me.   And so far, so good.  With a little luck, the only headaches I’ll have in 2013 will be stress-induced.  Hm.  That sounded better in my head.