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

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The laughs were unwelcome to West Siders, who'd endured decades of Cleveland jokes. Kucinich's job approval rating plummeted. His image as the absentee congressman reached full bloom.

He also showed telltale signs of becoming the purely political species he'd always denounced: the man who says one thing and does another.

At home he was anti-abortion, anti-gay-marriage, praising the merits of bowling and sausage. In California he was a vegan liberal. At home he refused to debate his opponents; in New Hampshire and Nevada he sued to be included.

And during his last congressional race, he vowed to forgo another presidential bid — only to renege as soon as the race was over.

It's the kind of behavior that breeds enemies from allies. Count Ron Harold among the transformed.

When reached by Scene, Harold was in the lobby of a Louisiana Marriott. He'd just been booted from his room, unable to pay the bill and with nowhere else to go. "I used to revere that little bastard as a fighter for the people," drawls Harold, "and now he's taking a shit on the little guy."

That little guy he speaks of is Ron Harold. He used to produce ads for Kucinich's presidential campaign — until the congressman stiffed him on a $28,000 bill, he claims. Now he can't get Kucinich to return his calls.

"If somebody would pay for my plane ticket, I'd march right to Dennis' door, and the cameras better be rolling," says Harold. "I'd leave a stain. I'm so mad, I can't speak the English language right now."

Then he pauses, envisioning a moment of revenge. "Actually, when you see Dennis, tell him Ron Harold's in the room next door. Watch his face drop."

Unfortunately, Scene couldn't get Kucinich on the phone either. His cell phone picks up after one ring. This is Dennis. Thanks for calling. I'm looking forward to speaking with you . . .

But he never calls back.

In a small studio tucked in the bowels of the Time Warner Cable complex on Lakeside Avenue, four candidates for the 10th Congressional seat pose rigidly in a half-circle, making awkward small talk before the cameras start rolling for the cable debate.

Cimperman, O'Grady, Barbara Ferris, and Rosemary Palmer are all here, along with host Bob Conklin. Kucinich initially declined to appear, but changed his mind at the last minute. Cimperman is quick to claim credit. "I had told Conklin, whenever I was asked a question, I was going to point at Dennis' empty seat and say, 'Where's the congressman?' I think that's what got him to fly in."

True or not, Kucinich now seems to understand that he can't neglect his hometown. When he arrives late, he appears relaxed, shaking his opponents' hands warmly — except for Cimperman's. An unrestrained grimace says the congressman still hasn't forgiven those campaign stunts.

Because the candidates are all Democrats and the topics are so broad — from gay marriage to handgun control — agreement carries the day. But they still find reason to bicker. Kucinich, unsurprisingly, is the common target, but it's not Cimperman firing the arrows. It's Parma native Ferris, at turns jolly and abrasive, who guns for the absentee congressman thesis.

As the contestants make their own rules, talking over each other and trampling time limits, Cimperman is uncharacteristically reserved. His responses are swift and clipped, ending with thin smiles.

"I felt so young," he says later. Indeed, he's almost 20 years the junior of the next-youngest candidate and spends the debate stewing, like a child dining at the adults' table who's afraid to speak out.

His performance is a far cry from a few evenings before, when he spoke at a Cleveland Executive Fellows' meeting. Then, Cimperman was at his best — confident and funny as he spoke about experiences with loony constituents, his ravaged sleeping habits, and his troubled childhood. The topic that night was himself.

Perhaps it was fatigue that held Cimperman back during the debate; he was taking a break from a 10-hour day of council duties. Or maybe he's just not comfortable debating issues — even with Conklin's docile prompts.

Walking outside City Hall on a gray February morning, Cimperman runs into an old foe. Zack Reed is energetically bounding up the steps two at a time when Cimperman slows him. "Hey — good article, Zack," he tells him, referring to a Scene story chronicling Reed's drunken fall from grace.

Reed thanks him and continues on his way. The hatchet, it seems, is buried. "We've gotten much better," he says later.

The two politicians' trajectories, once so closely linked, have never been farther apart — one jousting for a congressional seat, while the other simply hopes to keep his job.

But Cimperman is still a long shot for Congress. The prevailing forecast has him splitting the vote with the other challengers, leaving Kucinich to walk away with victory. But if he does take down Kucinich, it's unlikely he'll be satisfied, just like his former mentor.

Asked whether Congress will finally place a ceiling on his aspirations, Cimperman smiles. "For the time being," he says.

Dennis couldn't have said it better.

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