Anderson Cooper has always struck me as the whitest white man on television news.

He’s like CNN’s version of Wonder Bread — the kind without the fibre.

Anderson Cooper can make anything bland. He can be standing in the middle of a hurricane, buffeted about by million mile winds, and his hair still stays in place. He just stands there with a grin on his face. He might as well be eating a sandwich.

What’s with the name? Most guys named Anderson would be Andy or Coop — names they acquired in childhood. Maybe it’s because he’s the son of Gloria Vanderbilt and had to spend his after school hours giving out scent swatches at Fashion Week.

Maybe he never played organized sports, which is probably a good thing because he’s virtually invisible to the naked eye. If he played goalie, the defencemen would have a pretty difficult time figuring out if there was anyone in the net. He looks, it seems, like he might have played organized backgammon.

So when he announced he was creating his own afternoon talkie, I thought, boy, this is going to be a snoozefest.

And sure enough.

Yet, I’ve found myself strangely glued to his show.

I cannot get enough of it.

It’s not because Anderson is a scintillating host. In fact, he’s quite the opposite. He is still bland as sponge cake, but it almost makes him funny.

He’s like the William H. Macey character in Pleasantville. He can have the most shocking guest on his show, and his pulse never rises about half-dead.

Last week, he had Jerry Seinfeld on his show. Jerry Seinfeld, the man who invented the modern day comedy. Anderson, who inexplicably is friends with Seinfeld, spent most of the hour debating whether it was a good idea to put honey on a peanut butter sandwich, and why anyone would opt for a waffle when a pancake is perfectly fine.

That’s because Anderbum doesn’t eat anything fancy. He eats no vegetables which probably accounts for his ghost-like hue. He doesn’t drink, he doesn’t smoke, it certainly looks like he never has sex. He cycles to work without a helmet — even though he knows it’s dangerous — and he hosts a talk show in some art gallery in Manhattan with borrowed furniture.

The man screams for an intervention from Ghostbusters.

It is fascinating to watch how Anderbum can dumb down every conversation. He had his mom, fashion icon Gloria Vanderbilt, on the program to discuss the untimely death of his dad and his brother. On any network, this would have been must-see-tv.

Yet, the two of them sat there talking as if they were discussing the proper use of a triangle in common fabric creations.

When his brother threatened to jump of the roof of his building, his mom told the audience, she wanted to go with him — he did jump, she didn’t — but she only stayed on the planet Earth because she didn’t want to leave Anderson alone.

Instead of grabbing her and having the big ugly cry, Anderson smiled as if she was talking about somebody else.

Sarah Jessica Parker appeared on the program — if it had been Oprah, she would have screamed so loud you could hear her in Milwaukee — and Anderson shared that he thought they (Sarah, Anderson) had the same giggle.

“Have you ever had a martini?”

“No, I don’t drink.”

“That’s a coincidence,” Anderson chortled, tipping his white head sideways. “Neither do I.”

What the heck is the point of this show?

It has no entertainment value whatsoever.

Scott was home one day and I made him watch. He shook his head and said: “Wow, this show won’t be on the air very long.”



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