When There Were 13, I looked at The Show and pronounced it good. When There Were Eight, I realized that most of America wasn’t about to text-message or vote online en masse — meaning these finalists were going to skew younger than ever. When There Were Three, I realized I didn’t much care any more, even when the Pageant Queen pulled out my favorite Zepplin song and sang it with an authority I didn’t know she had in her. She promptly was eliminated.

There Can Be Only One, of course. The winner is a guy who started with so little gravitas that he almost faded into the background months ago. I guess he’s OK — he certainly seems nice enough — but for a season that once had so much mojo, not much remained at the end.

The final show was the latest disappointing season-ender for me, although voters at least ended their love affair with forgettable emo rockers. Only two performers jumped out at me in the finale: Lady Gaga, who increasingly reminds me that it ain’t bragging if you can back it up; and Marc Anthony, who would have set that room ablaze even if his wife hadn’t given him an assist.

In the end, the winner hardly mattered. That’s not the kind of outcome you like to see. I suppose they always have next year to get it right.