Salon.com > Kenneth H. Cleaver

Arrest those dreadlocked rascals!

Fri, 15 Dec 2000 20:30:00 +0000

Aug. 14, 2000

Robert W. Healy
City Manager
Office of the City Manager
795 Massachusetts Ave.
Cambridge, MA 02139

Dear Mr. Healy:

I am saddened to report that a recent visit to your city was scarred by a most unpleasant occurrence. Walking near Harvard Square, I was followed by a gang of overgrown guttersnipes with rings right through their noses and long knotty hair. My younger relations inform me this style is called "dreadlocks." It certainly looks dreadful.

At the root of their discontent was my T-shirt picturing Chinese President Jiang Zemin embracing exiled Tibetan leader the Dalai Lama. The back features the slogan "China & Tibet: Together 4ever." The gang of boys demanded I take it off and became incensed when I refused. Before I could discourse upon freedom of expression and the potential of Buddhist-Communist unity, the young men were upon me.

Strangely enough, I was never kicked or punched, but my mouth was pried open and mob members forced down it what I later discovered to be organic bean sprouts, after which the boys stood up and bombarded me with bricks of extra-firm tofu. During the struggle they made several curious remarks. "Don't f*** with the Dalai Lama!" "Tibetan Buddhists rule!" Before dispersing, the gang leader warned that if I was seen in Cambridge again he would "get some pipe-hittin' lesbians and get vegan on my ass."

Dear Sundance: These bons mots are for hire

Fri, 08 Dec 2000 20:30:00 +0000

October 11, 2000

Dear Sundance Film Festival:

To borrow from Somerset Maugham, I am a person "of no social consequence." I say this not out of a desire for pity, but as a realistic assessment of my sphere of influence in the world of independent cinema. As film festivals have become ubiquitous, status and distinction have become increasingly important. Though unknown in the industry, my cinephiliac savvy, cultural lucidity and overall insufferability will help maintain Sundance's status as the country's elite film festival.

In exchange for passes, accommodations and a modest per diem, I will occupy the role of hipster in paradise. My aura ranges from sullen to sassy, my wardrobe from silk to suede. The following statements exemplify my aptitude for instilling a buzz.

"Not since Ed Burns has the American cinema witnessed such unbridled auterism!"

"This is so much better than Cannes: Everyone here speaks English!"

"Now THAT is a progressive mocha!"

"Parker Posey, salt of the earth."

"Have you seen ______? It's reminiscent of Kevin Smith, but without the mise-en-scène."

While I would prefer to work for Sundance, I will soon be courting other offers. Trust me when I say that you want Kenneth Cleaver on your team.

Dear Friendly’s: Where have all the doilies gone?

Fri, 01 Dec 2000 09:00:00 +0000

February 6, 1999

Friendly's Ice Cream Corporation
1855 Boston Road
Wilbraham, Mass. 01095

Dear Friendly's:

I have been a Friendly's customer for many years and I hope to continue on for many more. While my grievance may appear superficial, please trust that I would not take the time to write if I didn't feel it was important. My concern is that you have abandoned your long-standing practice of serving ice cream desserts on doilies.

While I recognize that such a decorative gesture has no bearing on the quality of the dessert, it adds a touch of class clearly lacking in most franchise establishments. In the northeast it appears Friendly's has cornered the market on sit-down ice cream venues. It would be unfortunate if that edge was utilized to cut back on the trimmings that make it great. Are doilies environmentally unsound? Are doilies recyclable? Has Friendly's considered a more earth-conscious doily substitute -- like macramé? Are my worst fears true? Has the doily been banished to the dustbin of Americana with the juke joint and roller waitress? Or was this anti-consumerist policy the brainchild of some corporate bean counter who wouldn't know a Fribble from French toast? I will assume the best as I prepare for the worst.

The margarine conspiracy

Fri, 17 Nov 2000 20:30:00 +0000

Sept. 15, 2000

"I Can't Believe It's Not Butter!"
c/o Lipton
800 Sylvan Ave.
Englewood Cliffs, NJ 07632

Dear ICBINB:

Sophisticated in their understanding of culture, politics and literature, my friends -- and you can dust this for sarcasm -- are a bastion of profundity. They had little difficulty plowing through the teary-eyed haze of nostalgia surrounding "The Phantom Menace" and dismissing it for the travesty it was. They subscribed to Details magazine when it was under homosexual editorship and canceled months before it became the midwife to Maxim and Stuff. However, on one particular topic, their critical faculties have lapsed. My friends willingly believe that your product "I Can't Believe It's Not Butter!" is not butter. "It's just margarine, Kenneth, get over it already."

But I can't get over it. While my cohorts may choose to believe they are getting butter for margarine, I would like it known that I, Kenneth H. Cleaver, do not, will not and cannot believe that your product "I Can't Believe It's Not Butter!" is not butter. To state this more succinctly, I think your product is butter.

Dear Days Inn: Consider me bolted

Fri, 03 Nov 2000 20:30:00 +0000

July 17, 2000

Days Inn
P.O. Box 29004
Phoenix, AZ 85038-9004

Dear Days Inn:

I had the good fortune of being your guest this past March in Dearborn, Mich. What I learned during the course of my stay will remain for me a lifelong practice.

When I first noticed the remote control bolted to my night table, I was not a happy guest. Days Inn trusted me no further than I could throw a cheesecake underwater. Or so it seemed. As my anger passed, I began to contemplate my home and what I might want to bolt down.

For as long as I can remember, I have thrown my pillow in my sleep. I wake up to a stiff neck and my slumber cushion lost to the netherworld of a dark room. What was once a nightly hassle is now a fading memory. My pillow remains affixed to my sheets, thanks to one reluctant Granny and her sewing prowess. Success No. 1!

My dog loves bones. She drags her marrow trophies around as if they were hard won on the Serengeti, rather than the pet aisles of Shoprite. The bones are smelly, gross and constantly underfoot. Zipper now battles bolted-down bones in the corner of the living room. She's adjusting. I'm ecstatic. Success No. 2!

Rename the eggplant, please

Tue, 24 Oct 2000 23:54:00 +0000

June 23, 2000

California Rare Fruit Growers Inc.
Fullerton Arboretum, California State University
P.O. Box 6850
Fullerton, CA 92834

Dear California Rare Fruit Growers Inc.:

The crisis of the American eggplant flies in the face of well-sung wisdom about judging books by their covers. With a coat reminiscent of the majestic tones of Rembrandt and Vermeer, the eggplant could not possess a better cover. The crisis facing the American eggplant is its name. Eggplant? This compound evokes fetid aromas of city dumps and genetic debacles fit for a "Far Side" cartoon. Not a palatable image, especially for finicky youngsters trying it for the first time. Is it not ironic that in an age of hyperconsumption, in which the image is master of all it surveys, even the most handsome of vegetables must be reconfigured?

I beg you not to succumb to knee-jerk decisions and adopt the plant's European name of "aubergine." With the growing popularity of soccer and Austin Powers, American culture must safeguard itself from feminizing European influence. At risk of occupying the role of a curmudgeonly critic, I have taken it upon myself to offer several new names for the American eggplant.