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Joe Cimperman hopes to tear down his former hero, Dennis Kucinich

By Gus Garcia-Roberts 

Eight years ago, downtown Councilman Joe Cimperman was determined to get Dennis Kucinich's portrait hung in City Hall.

Kucinich's two-year reign during the 1970s had left the city broke and in ruins. So no one bothered to commission a portrait to place within the gallery of former mayors. But Cimperman had come to admire the West Side congressman as a fighter for working people. "It wasn't like he was led away in handcuffs," says the councilman.

Cimperman and Councilman Martin Sweeney held a kielbasa fund-raiser and trolled for donations, eventually snaring $30,000 for the cause. Colleagues found his determination amusing. "He just admired Dennis so much," says Councilman Matt Zone. "Joe, being the young, ambitious guy he is, took it upon himself to lead the effort."

An Akron artist was chosen. But the congressman blew off two portrait sittings in Cleveland. Finally, Cimperman bought the artist a ticket to Washington — but Kucinich's camp canceled the sitting just as he was about to board the plane. The effort was finally scrapped in 2005.

Today, there's only empty space between the portraits of Ralph Perk and George Voinovich. "It's a big disappointment," says Cimperman. "I was just like, 'Look, all we want to do is just sit with you for a couple of hours.'"

That was the last time the two politicians passed a cordial word. Since then, Cimperman's come to believe that the man he so admired is gone. "That was the Dennis of the past," he says, "the one that was really focused on the issues here."

The new Kucinich, he argues, is rarely involved in matters at home anymore. He's twice run for president, but barely registered in the national consciousness. Meanwhile, while the congressman was "spending all his time in Hawaii and Syria," Cleveland was being rushed to an economic emergency ward.

So Cimperman decided to take Kucinich's job — the 10th Congressional District seat, representing an area that stretches from Cleveland to North Olmsted. It's not like he's betraying his mentor, says Cimperman. "I didn't leave Dennis. Dennis left me."

"I have to do a speech in front of 200 people in a hour, and I have no idea what I'm going to say."

Cimperman announces this almost gleefully. The stocky councilman — pale and boyish in an overgrown crew cut and baggy suit — is leaning forward in the back seat of his campaign manager's Chrysler Sebring. He's being shuttled from a ribbon-cutting downtown to a party in Ohio City.

It's less than a month before the Democratic primary, and the campaign is in full stride. Cimperman no longer has time to prepare speeches. He usually doesn't even know where he'll be appearing until an assistant informs him just a few minutes before.

Cimperman finds little time to sleep, none to exercise. The once-lean marathon-runner now bears the physique of a softball ump.

But if he's exhausted, it's hard to tell. His voice explodes with nervous excitement as he rushes from topic to topic. "You gotta come with me to the Li Wah Chinese New Year Party!" he gushes before jaggedly segueing into how he won $25,000 in a St. Joseph Academy raffle. "But I told them to put it in the scholarship fund!"

His two handlers in the front seat smile like bemused parents. Eric Wobser and Amanda Dempsey are used to Cimperman's nonstop chatter, his native exuberance. The councilman barely seems to breathe as he narrates the ride from the Rock Hall to Ohio City:

Look at that crazy view . . .

LeBron rents there . . .

I helped build that park . . .

Have you tried that place's sausages?

We arrive at a large Victorian, home to a corporate lawyer who's throwing a fund-raiser. Cimperman bounds through the door, shaking hands as he canvasses the home, front to back. Then he unloads an emphatic vignette that ranges from the importance of family to his ability to compromise with business. During the gentle applause, he knocks a picture off the mantle with his elbow, shakes a dozen more hands, and is suddenly in the back seat of the Chrysler once again. The entire appearance feels like one fluid motion.

By the time Cimperman arrives at a Democratic meeting in Lakewood, he's a half-hour late. The other candidates are already on their way out, and the man on stage is extolling the virtues of Obama. Cimperman is given two minutes to speak.

He hasn't written anything down, but he doesn't need notes. Like any politician in the throes of a race, he has platitudes in reserve. Besides, his platform is simple. The nutshell version: In every aspect that Kucinich is failing, he will succeed.

These are the rapid-fire sound bites that any congressional campaign is composed of — one part bravado, one part knife to the throat of one's nefarious opponent.

"As a full-time congressman, I would have never voted against the child health-care bill," he says, a jab at Kucinich's nay to the Children's Health Insurance Program.

"I know how to get things done with business interests and will bring millions back to the district," he says, a shot at Kucinich's penchant for political fighting rather than luring business to the West Side.

"We have a foreclosure crisis, and we need a congressman who will be fighting for us, not stumping in Hawaii," he says, a reference to Kucinich's history of campaigning in vacation spots rather than electoral battlegrounds.

But if Cimperman is presenting himself as a new breed of West Side pol, his method of jousting is strictly old-school.

North Olmsted Mayor Tom O'Grady poses little threat in the Democratic primary. Cimperman nonetheless gobbled up prospective internet domain names for O'Grady, to keep him from launching an effective website. "I liked Joe," says the mayor in the tone of a scolding principal. "That was very disappointing and unprofessional."

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