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  Adam Skalman Skalman is a second-year American literature and culture student who, like you, enjoys backrubs and gum. E-mail him at skooter7@ucla.edu. Click Here for more articles by Adam Skalman

They say video killed the radio star, but I think Florida is actually to blame. Or at least that morbidly obese boy band creator down in Orlando who ate all the good music.

I’ve pretty much given up on finding intelligent music that gets radio play. It doesn’t exist at this point. Listening to Star 98.7 or KIIS 102.7, I tend to take a somewhat Hobbesian view of humanity: life is nasty, brutish and short, a world where playing an instrument and singing are mutually exclusive and apparently unmarketable.

After eschewing so many Backstreet Boys and crushes of Eden, wading through steaming piles of post-punk Blink banality, and hearing that inane Crazytown song more times than I’ve heard my own name, I was at a crisis point. I was ready to turn off my radio completely.

Thank God I didn’t. Thank God for country music.

Here is a genre where 45-minute abs and Joan Allen cheekbones aren’t prerequisites for success. There are no “bitches” in country music, they don’t “roll up” in “whips” or “Lexus jeeps,” and they certainly don’t drink Old English (excluding LeAnn Rimes, of course).

These are not folks who are only cute on mute, like all those snackables on TRL (an acronym which I believe stands for Tara Reid’s Lunch).

There are just as many millionaire divas and crafty publicists in Nashville as there are ex-children of Destiny in Beyonce’s basement, but country music is still about real people dealing with real issues. Like premeditated murder, for instance.

Jadakiss can talk about obliterating the competition with a Glock 9, but the Dixie Chicks like to kick it old school. Real people poison their abusive husbands. Unless they’re Darryl Gates, they don’t waste Crips and keep the Westside pure.

I think “Goodbye Earl” is a much more pragmatic guide to cold-blooded killing than is, say, Eminem’s beating his wife to death in “Kim.” I don’t know about you, but I have no idea where to procure illegal Israeli firearms. I do, however, know where to buy black-eyed peas and rat poison.

And country girls don’t talk about how much ice they wear or how much money they get for sex. I’m sure Shania Twain rocks Gucci kicks and carries her Grammys around in a giant Louis Vuitton handbag, but at least her music is about stuff I can relate to. It’s so much more pertinent than all these girl power mongers who sing about how they can buy their own diamond rings.

Jennifer Lopez’s love don’t cost a thing. Pink doesn’t want a man with the bling-bling. Destiny’s Child bought the shoes they’re wearing.

I’m sorry, but if you make in excess of $40 million a year, buying your own clothing doesn’t really make an excellent case for martyrdom. “Independent Women Part 2?” I haven’t heard “Part 1,” but I imagine it’s about buying 14 pairs of Prada aviators with Daddy’s platinum AmEx.

Shania’s love don’t cost a thing, and that’s because she hangs out in honky tonks with guys named Bubba. If her love cost more than the price of an Amstel Light, she’d be in serious trouble.

I can barely afford to buy a date dinner at Hamburger Hamlet, let alone show up with the keys to a Mercedes SL500. So I like to hear music about people in my tax bracket.

Country music is honestly about love, too.

I have this mental picture of Jay-Z in a hot tub surrounded by thongs and Cristal champagne. Somehow I don’t think this would work for Travis Tritt. When you weigh in at 250 and wear Wranglers, the search for love probably doesn’t begin in the back seat of a Hummer limo.

Can Lil’ Kim really be happy? Where’s the tenderness, the sincerity? Does she ever have sex that doesn’t involve condiments? Toby Keith only involves molasses in his sexual practices if he happens to be eating pancakes during the act. He’s concerned about other things.

Country music is about yearning and heartbreak, about being touched on a more emotional level.

If Blink 182 looked like Brooks and Dunn, I might be able to buy the whole “I’m just a dork who can’t get laid” schtick. But Nashville seems to be the only town where guys don’t have to submit a head shot along with their demo tape.

Now to be fair, I don’t exactly fit the country music mold myself. I like foreign films, I drive a white Jetta and I think Diesel jeans are the best thing since well, Todd Oldham jeans. But aside from Gap commercials, there isn’t too much music that is serious about denim.

So I turn to country.

When you live in Los Angeles, it’s easy to forget that there are people whose dogs aren’t miniaturized and accessorized, people who wear cowboy hats without irony, people who could kick ass on that mechanical bull at Saddle Ranch on Sunset if only they knew the Strip wasn’t a tittie bar in Mobile.

These are real people singing from real experience. So give me country radio or give me Nick Carter’s phone number. Maybe he’ll promise not to sing during dinner.