Puppets and humans all have hearts, whether they're fabricated or grown.

That's what I learned when I sat down with Clarence, one of America's beloved personalities, from the critically acclaimed "Wonder Showzen."  Puppet news reports vanished from children's public television, and were all but invisible aside from appearances on Keith Olbermann's "Counterdown"... that is, until W5N and Clarence's Man-on-the-Street
 interviews hit the scene, delighting viewers, critics, and passersby alike ever since.  When I call to set up our interview, I worry I've caught the intrepid interviewer off-guard.  Clarence keeps the conversation short, suggesting we meet at noon at Max's Kansas City here in New York.  When I arrive a few minutes early, there he is, sitting at a table, drinking ginger ale with his publicist, Flo, who leaves promptly.  No handlers, no publicist -- just me and Clarence chatting over peanuts and soda.

We all know puppets are booming across America:  a successful Broadway show, the shadow puppetry craze in Chinatown, and Day of the Dead puppet parades in Arizona all demonstrate a community that captures the public's imagination.  But beneath that glitzy veneer is a gritty underbelly, and for every Clarence who lands a play or cable gig, there's a Roosevelt Franklin or Speedy Alka Selzer, and a thousand unknowns of every shape and texture -- especially those big-headed types in San Francisco street theatre or marching on Washington, for whom life is a series of politically charged battles.

And it's society's invisible puppets ... the paper bag puppet on the bus, the marionette who needs help on the subway... whom Clarence champions.  "Maybe you've seen a puppet working a magazine or fruit cart.  Did you stop and say hello?  Did you say thank you after making your you made your purchase?" Clarence asks me solemnly.

But one battle Clarence is facing is the bloodbath from a pending lawsuit from elders of the Friends Quaker Church.  News of the littering charges broke on Page Six, with nasty consequences:  a prominent cosmetics company pulled out of a celebrity endorsement deal with Clarence.  And rumors of a Saturday Night Live hosting gig have cooled.  But his street cred has mushroomed considerably.

"Do we hold our kiddie hosts up to impossibly high standards?" I ask him.  He muses momentarily and responds with a sing-song retort, "Well maybe we should!"  Is he mocking me?  I ask Clarence to comment on the pending lawsuit, the Friends Quaker Church v. Clarence.  He shakes his head while sipping his ginger ale, then remarks, "Just remember it's not the whole church, it's just two ladies who go to church there.  And that's all I can say."  Court records filed last month indicate two church elders are suing the puppet for littering on behalf of the Friends, represented by the all-puppet law firm Fluffer & Feffet.  Are the Quakers saavy for hiring puppets as lawyers?  "Talk to my lawyer, buddy," Clarence says, waving his hand.  "Next question?"

Whose arm is that coming from his behind in a couple of shots?  "My proctologist?" he suggested quizzically,slurping the last his ginger ale from a class.  His high voice grows a pitch higher and three decibels louder, "What's wrong with the service here?  Can someone help me with a refill?  Who can give me a refill here?"

So what does Clarence make of the unhinged bystanders who go ballistic on him when he asks innocent questions?  "People are afraid sometimes," he intimates quietly, leaning over.  "Sometimes... people don't want to share," he says, "Even when they can help millions of kids learn."  He is staring out the window at passersby.  What do they learn Clarence? I ask gently.  "They learn about patience, freedom of speech, and their right to refuse to be on camera."

Do the more violent reactions indicate a cultural disrespect for puppets?  "Oh sure," Clarence says, nodding his head at our server.  "When the flesh is made of felt, people look away.  You think it's coincidence I'm blue and fuzzy and the waitress forgot to bring a refill?" he quips loudly.  (Our server brings a fresh ginger ale as he says this.) 

"How many puppet dramas do you see on TV?  Or reality TV?  None, that's how man.  One Broadway hit and everyone says, 'Ohhh, the glass ceiling is smashed'," he says in a high-pitched mocking tone.  "I tell ya buddy, when puppets pill up and get soft, that's it.  They toss you into the dustrag pile. " 

Of course, last fall the media landscape seemed to be shifting.  Amid autumn leaves, rumors swirled around midtown Manhattan, whispers of a new all-puppet channel, funded by a CoCor and a consortium of foam, felt and ping-pong ball manufacturing companies.  By Christmastime, hopes were deflated by nightmarish screaming matches between cold-footed investors and the hard-line MF (the puppet union, Ministers of Foam).  "The all-puppet channel idea is dead," Clarence says coolly, twirling the straw in his ginger ale.  Off the record, he listed several well-known but unemployed puppets who were counting on the evanescent channel to launch a comeback.  "Puppets used to be in commericals all the time!  Now they won't even let us sell dog food.  Pets love us!!!  They chew on us whenever they get the chance."

Shafts of afternoon sun illuminate layers of smoke settling intp the high ceiling of Max's Kansas City.  We agree a change of pace is in order.  "Right on!  Stay here too long, and my fur will be stinky for a week!"  he says, hopping down from his chair.  We drop a hefty tip and saunter out, and Clarence remarks, "Brings back memories of nights here with Ultra Violet and Edie."  

I start doing the math in my head as we ditch the old haunt.  These are the kind of claims that leave me wondering about this little reptilian bloke.  The Warhol era was, of course, decades before "Wonder Showzen," back when Sam and his friends, Kukla Fran & Ollie, and Beany & Cecil were busy shaping the scene that we know today.

So I ask Clarence about his age as we round the corner, and he pivots and glares at me, his expression crumpled.  For a moment, I am afraid the blue TV host is going to yell at me right in the middle of the Lower East Side.  But he cocks his head and gives my leg a hug, right there on Houston Street.  "I'll give you a clue," he says, looking up at me, "Foam lasts longer than liquid laytex."  After his cryptic answer, he complains he's feeling a bit testy and hasn't eaten today.   Clarence is a big fan of herring, and I love latkes, so a famous deli around the corner is an ideal spot to enjoy a late lunch. 

"Look at this counter -- way too short for someone my size," he murmurs to me as we are waiting in line at the wood-paneled deli.   "Remember the scene from 'When Harry Met Sally' that was filmed here?" I ask.  Clarence looks at me non-plussed -- or maybe it was just his googly eyes? -- but he brightens and replies, "Oh that was a big hit with the kids!"  As we wait, Clarence sings a little song about patience for the benefit of the folks in line, and even signs autographs for a pair of giggling girls from Stuyvesant High.  Clarence and I each grab a dill pickle, a number, and a seat at the famous deli.

"Look, President Clinton has eaten here!" I pointed to one of many pictures on the wall.  Instead, Clarence is reading a WWII-era sign "Send a sausage to the boys overseas."  Then he looks up at the smorgasboard of meats suspended from the ceiling.  "What huge sausages!" he exclaims.  "How much would it cost to send one of those monsters?  Do you think the boys would like that?!" 

An elderly woman at the next table initiates a conversation with the puppet, launching into tips on using UPS.  By the time our food arrives, Clarence and the elderly woman (Lina is her name, we learn) hold a ten-minute discussion about parcel post, express mail and CODs. 

Once I've finished my potato pancakes, I suggest Clarence's food will grow cold if he doesn't eat his herring.  "That okay," he says innocently, "Herring is served cold anyway."  I feel stupid, but Clarence's response is kind, not uppity.  His googly eyes seem dewey, as if he is touched by this octogenarian's stories about the origin of zip codes.  I wonder to myself, how could anyone get outraged by this big-hearted amphibian? 

Waxing about his days of vaudeville, Clarence tells me and Lina about his struggles living on Avenue D in a railroad apartment, living on deviled ham and generic macaroni and cheese for seven months.   Lina tells us about escaping the Nazis in war-torn Europe, and we persuade the two teenaged girls, eavesdropping at the next table, to join us in a sing-a-long of "Tzena Tzena Tzena."  One girl downloads "Wonder Showzen" photos and audio clips to demonstrate for Lina that Clarence is a big-time celebrity.  Lina just laughs and laughs, it's unclear if she gets it.  For Clarence, it doesn't matter.  For the humble reptile, it has been a long road from his early days at Max's around the corner.

Soon, the sky outside is turning dark blue, the girls are long-gone (one offered Clarence her phone number), and Lina has finished her borscht and scooted off to a cribbage game.  Clarence has eaten only half his herring, and my interview is far from complete.  I didn't get the scoop about the brou-ha-ha over the shakeup at "Wonder Showzen" W5N and their newfangled all-seeing anchor ("One of his eyes looks in the wrong direction, have you ever noticed?" Clarence asks, looking sideways.)  Nor did I get the full story about Clarence's days as a bartender at Danceteria (recall the infamous photos of him and Kathy Griffin on the dance floor) or decent followup on his stint as a bouncer at Wetlands ("No convictions, clean record," he says hastily when asked about his history with the environmentalist nightclub.)

But spending the afternoon with Clarence is a gift itself, as Lina and two Stuyvesant High students will confirm.  Maybe he hasn't been around the block as long as pretends.  For the record, Ultra Violet has never heard of him.  But others will attest that Clarence has a shadowy past -- and aliases -- that could thwart the memories of NYC finest superstars.  Like Laura Palmer, Clarence is full of secrets. 

Before I know it, Clarence slips on lenses and steps into a cab ("Avoid the riverfront!" he shouts "The moisture makes my eyeballs sag!") offering parting wisdom, "Tell your readers," he says, leaning out the cab window, "Remember, the past is the past, and do your very best.  And do something nice for the kids!"