Larry King is always with us -- why?

Larry King is a pop-culture artifact. He is a reminder of a time before interviewers betrayed their point of view, their agenda or even their personality. King is an interviewer. He's all about the questions -- even if he occasionally gets a bit confused about who it is he's actually talking to. His quest is not for the truth behind a lie; he offers modestly engaging chatter to fill the dead space.

King has an interview style that is peculiar to him. His questioning often boils down to a single query that he can apply to all situations, whether it is the conflict in Georgia, the presidential election, a UFO sighting or Paris Hilton's jail time: "Whaddaya make of it?"

Dressed for radio in his trademark suspenders, King coughs up the question as he hunches over his desk with its prop microphone. It is often his opening query, and it elicits everything from talking points and clichés to stream-of-consciousness ramblings from those so unaccustomed to invitations to blithely babble that they don't know when it's in their interest to stop talking.

With his CNN show "Larry King Live," he stands out on cable television because unlike his fellow hosts, he doesn't display a political philosophy. He doesn't present himself as representing either the left or the right. And as a result, he doesn't come off like the crazy neighbor you make it your business to avoid.

A variety of reasons can explain a talk-show host's popularity. Oprah Winfrey gives audiences the impression that she is wrapping her guests in a warm and supportive hug. The folks on her stage may be revealing profoundly personal or embarrassing details of their lives, but Winfrey reassures them that their honesty in front of her multitude of viewers is surely helping some lost soul out there in TV land.

Charlie Rose is the conversationalist. He makes virtually every guest sound not merely articulate, but also wise and thoughtful. In 1997, Rose memorably interviewed the actor Sylvester Stallone about his film "Cop Land." So snappy was the questioning and ensuing conversation that Stallone, whom audiences had grown accustomed to seeing portrayed as little more than a musclehead, came across as erudite.

And while Tyra Banks has a disconcerting tendency for titillation, her style of questioning combines adult interests with the unembarrassed probing of a toddler. Thus she was willing to ask the singer Ray J about his relationships with Lil' Kim and Whitney Houston, including whether he had sex with either of them.

Watching him talk

Recently we began trying to figure out what makes King, who has one of the top-rated programs on CNN, so popular. We began obsessing about him because over the past few months he has hosted a particularly wide-ranging series of shows. All have been captivating, but not always for the best of reasons. His unemotional questioning of prisoners inside the Maryland Correctional Institution for Women was laudable as it prevented the women from being seen as either victims or monsters. They were, quite simply, criminals.

But then there was the interview with the women from the polygamist community in Texas. They were a blur of modest-looking white women in prim dresses and rolled hair. Wives, daughters, sisters, whatever. King couldn't keep them all straight, and the fact that he didn't seem the least bit bothered by the confusion made the episode all the more fascinating. Before beginning his interview with the four members of Motley Crue, he introduced them as "my pals," which had the ring of a really uncool kid wanting to be cool by association. And during a tribute to comedian Bernie Mac, his introduction of actor Ashton Kutcher sounded suspiciously like "Austin Kutcher."

Like a lot of political talk show hosts, King will assemble a round-table to analyze a particular issue, but his topics could be anything from the John Edwards affair to the death of George Carlin or Kanye West's mother after cosmetic surgery. It doesn't really matter. King takes the same tone regardless. He does not have interludes of wry humor like Anderson Cooper. He doesn't have moments when he tries to go all Mensa like Fareed Zakaria. He is not the star of his own show; the guest is the focus of attention.

He doesn't get tangled up in long-winded observations or wordy preludes to a question. He doesn't engage in humorous repartee with a guest -- or maybe he does and it's just not funny. King is always plodding on to the next question, which, as often as not, will have little to do with the one that preceded it. By modern standards, King is boring.

But at 74, he is also a symbol of continuity, and that may explain his popularity. We watch because that's what we've always done. And there are few things we can say that about.

We are not declaring 74 old. People run road races at that age, after all. But King plays the role of the "old man," the sort of fellow who'd mumble: Kids these days! He emphasizes his long resume not as a sign of his experience, but rather his longevity.

King isn't breaking new ground as an interviewer; he's turning old age to his advantage.