Why bars suck

For the past month or so, I've been hanging out with a guy we'll call "Cowboy." Cowboy is a good guy. My age, and all. When we go out, it's largely like this: I drive over to his house, we chill on the porch, listening to music and talking about life. Cowboy's a lot different than me: He grew up in a part of the country not known for its Western image, yet the guy's got a mouth full of metal from a fall he took riding bulls once. He can rope and ride, and his dream is to own and manage a dude ranch. He's got a bunch of great sayings: "Got 'er licked," is one of my favorites. Dude's got a drawl, wears big belt buckles and always teases me about needing to wear a pair of Wranglers.
Cowboy is a lot different than most of my friends, and I'll tell you why. When we go out, I'm the designated driver. I've never ridden a horse (a camel once in Egypt) but never a horse. I don't own a cowboy hat, though I want to, and I love country music.
Anyway, last night, we went out with another buddy whom we met the previous weekend. Big boy, this guy. Built. Kinda scary. But cool, you know?
Cowboy and I went out to a few bars near the small town where we live. And now for the reason for my post.
Before about two months ago, I had been in about two or three bars in the previous decade since. I don't like them. The only reason why I go lately is because there's music there. Most of the people in bars are superficial, it's too freaking loud and you can't hear anyone or talk to anyone unless you yell. The music's too loud, generally the house band sucks (as it did on this night) and well, let's just say, it isn't my scene.
The only reason why I would ever enter a bar became obvious to me after a couple of different stops last night. If there isn't a microphone where I can sing, there's no point. I mean, I don't drink, and well, I'm not looking for anyone, either tonight or next year. I know where my heart lies, and it isn't with some skimpy-dressed chick wearing pants that barely cover a place where the sun don't shine. Nor is it a place where the dudes make farting jokes when you're in the bathroom or always look for some can of whoop-(bleep) to open up on some other dude.
Yes, I'm older, but c'mon. You walk into most places like that, where the jukebox is playing a blaring version of "Hip Sway" and expect to be taken seriously by anyone? Sorry, but no dice.
Believe me, I'd rather be in my bed alone once it hits about 11:30 p.m. or so. I have no tolerance for places like that, unless there's a VJ spinning CDs with graphics so you can sing to a song.
I guess I just figured out that bars aren't my thing, unless I can tear it up on the microphone. They are the most superficial places on Earth.
Besides, usually by the end of the night, Cowboy and I are rolling to Jack-in-the-Box at 3 a.m. and wondering why we were out so late. It's not like you can even have any kind of quality conversation with anyone when your eardrums are throbbing and you're stepping over someone's spilled Coors Light on your way to the bathroom for the gazillionth time. And when you're the only sober person in the place, like I am, it just becomes all the more stupid.
It's like watching a movie of someone's life unraveling in slow motion, and you can do nothing to stop it. That's when you realize the words "Last Call" are dreadful for even the sober designated drivers. It's a comical vignette to see bouncers screaming this, frazzled bartenders pleading for you to "drink up," while the taxicabs and cops form a long blue line outside of said bar. It's like a tragicomedy.