Yes, more than 40 million people tuned in to watch the announcement of who won the fifth season of “American Idol” the other night. That would put it behind only the Oscars and the Super Bowl in television audience this year, according to news accounts.

It was the Great American Idle.

For an hour or two, in many places across America, deadlines went unmet; deals went unbrokered; promises went unkept; risks went unventured; speeches went undelivered; mysteries went unsolved; factories went quiet; errands went unrun; crimes went uncommitted; roads went unpaved; data went unprocessed; dishes went unwashed; children went unscolded; kisses went unblown; sweet-nothings went unwhispered; babies went unmade; and, excepting a Fox production studio in Los Angeles, songs went unsung.

Against my will, I watched, too. I caught about 10 minutes’ worth of the two-hour spectacle, enough to convince me that I hadn’t missed anything by tuning out this and all prior seasons of the talent show.

But one of my brothers and his wife were over, and they wanted to watch. Being good hosts, my wife and I yielded. So, between innings of the Yankees-Red Sox game, we watched. My brother and his wife had followed all season; my wife and I had not, of course. In this, she and I were the black sheep of our family, the black sheep of all civil society, it seemed.

Throughout the season, my brother would call and ask, “Are you watching tonight — ‘American Idol’?” knowing full well that I wouldn’t be. It got to be an inside joke.

As you know — even Osama bin Laden must know — the finale involved two singers, a doughy gray-haired guy from Alabama and a comely doe-eyed brunette. The guy, Taylor Hicks, won, in case you missed the broadcast and several editions of the New Era last week. From what I could tell, Hicks had the Southern charm; the other finalist, Katharine McPhee, had the aforementioned pulchritude prized by the male 18-to-34 set. Neither had the pipes, to these untrained ears.

I’m no songbird, mind you, but to me they sounded like big-budget karaoke acts, at best.

Now, now, fanatics among you. Please don’t froth and issue a fatwa against me. This is just one man’s opinion, one idle American’s.

I simply didn’t — still don’t — get it, the “phenomenon,” as newspapers described it, of “American Idol.” I’ve neither read nor heard anything that enlightens me on this. Call me tone deaf. From the beginning in 2002, I thought of it as a tinselly enterprise, a marketing stunt, a minor-talent show. True, it may be the best of very bad reality television. That isn’t saying much.

But who am I to judge? I’m no arbiter. I’m no Simon Cowell or Paula Abdul or Other Guy who presides with them. (“Simon Cowell,” by the way, must be a made-up name. It fits the villainous personality too well. You can hear “scowl” in it.)

I tried to watch with an open mind. Given the fervor (or the “McPheever,” as the case may be) I expected more ... I don’t know what. Soul, maybe. It might rankle aspiring “soul” singer Hicks to hear that. “Soul Train,” or even “The Gong Show,” it wasn’t.

I must have missed all the nights when the two would-be finalists sang their hearts out. Now, I don’t begrudge them their overnight success. I couldn’t help but think, however, that along the way there must have been contestants more talented than Hicks and McPhee.

If not, and if the “American Idol” scouts descend on Clipper Magazine Stadium someday, I’ll be there. What do I have to lose, besides my dignity, as I warble “Stairway to Heaven” to the back row? I have only idol worshippers to gain.

Who knows? You might even cast a vote for me, the hometown boy. You might hear in me some talent I wasn’t aware I had. Anything is possible. After all, 40 million people can be wrong, can’t they?

(The Voices column is written by a rotating team of New Era staffers. It appears Mondays.)

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