Truth be told, I was hoping – not so deep down – that today’s Grammy Awards would be canceled, another victim of the writers’ strike.

Why? Because I’m evil, bitter and don’t want anybody to celebrate anything? Kinda, but that’s secondary.

The main reason: The Grammys are a joke.

If a petition were going around to cancel the show, split the awards among Kanye West, Bruce Springsteen, Carrie Underwood and Rihanna, and give Amy Winehouse an assortment of drugs and hair products in lieu of gramophones, I would sign it.

As I’ve thought in the past week about the impending ceremony – the Grammy’s 50th, woot! – I asked myself a simple question: Who actually cares about the Grammys?

Remember two years ago, when the Grammys aired on a Wednesday against “American Idol” and got completely stomped in the ratings?

People care more about the hacks on “Idol” than the so-called pros on the Grammys. (I say so-called because Fergie is scheduled to perform this year).

Here’s the problem: The Grammys don’t know what they want to be.

It’s not a pop-music show that caters to the casual fan, or Herbie Hancock wouldn’t be nominated for best album.

It’s not an award show for highbrow artists and elitist fans, or T-Pain wouldn’t have four nominations.

The Grammys try to exist in this funny little place between good music and popular music (and, sadly, there’s hardly an intersection nowadays). In this mission to everything to everyone, it’s actually nothing, a 110-category cluster of who cares.

Look at the Oscars. Sure, the Academy largely ignores box-office popularity and praises more artsy movies, but at least that’s its thing. That’s what we’ve come to expect.

What do we expect from the Grammys? An annual opportunity to scratch our heads?

The fact is that if you care about pop music, you watch the American Music Awards or the Billboard awards because they honor the Daughtrys and Nickelbacks of the world. If you care about country, you watch the numerous country award shows. Same with hip-hop.

If you’re an ultra-hip music snob who worships Spoon and Arcade Fire, you’re more about blogs than award shows.

Then we have the Grammys, pondering who had the best song of 2007: Carrie Underwood, Plain White T’s, Winehouse, Corinne Bailey Rae or Rihanna?

That’s pretty much the Grammy formula: anthemic country song, random rock song with youth appeal, new artist you should fawn over, underappreciated song and top pop hit.

It screams out: “We’re with it! We’re relevant! Really!”

No, you’re not. You’re a joke – one that’s getting tiring to laugh at anymore.