One of the perks of being a columnist over the years besides the lavish salary and the banker hours are the celebrity encounters.
You soon find out that celebrities are not much different than normal schmucks like you and me except for bigger wallets and at times bigger egos.
I’ve met my share of celebs, such as Mickey Mantle, Willie Mays, Mike Schmidt, Ted Williams, Pete Rose, Yogi Berra, Reggie Jackson, Cal Ripken, Johnny Bench and Stan Musial from the world of baseball; Roman Gabriel, Roger Staubach, Tony Dorsett, Steve Young, Herschel Walker and Walter Payton from the world of football; Julius Erving, Charles Barkley, Larry Bird and Magic Johnson from the world of basketball; Muhammad Ali, Joe Frazier, Larry Holmes and Mike Tyson from the world of boxing; Tom Clancy, Harlan Coben and Lisa Scottoline from the world of novelists; Barak Obama and Donald Trump from the world of presidents; Howard Cosell and Don King from the world of big mouths and Tom Jones, Buddy Guy and the Eagles from the world of music.
But the biggest celebrity I ever met in terms of personal impact on me was a guy who stood only 44 inches tall, not a whole lot taller than I was as a toddler when we met.
I imagine there was a bit of a hot dog in George Molchan. And why not? It was his job and he did it with relish.
Which is why — and I’m not making this up, folks — mourners years later sang, “Oh, I wish I were an Oscar Mayer wiener” and then blew short blasts on miniature, hot dog-shaped whistles during Molchan’s funeral.
George Molchan once upon a time was a big deal in this country as he marketed Oscar Meyer for 36 years.
He played a character known as Little Oscar and would travel from town to town in the 27-foot-long Oscar Mayer Wienermobile back in the days when medical experts hadn’t yet done a lawn job on the negative nutritional aspects of hot dogs.
Molchan remains a treasured image from yesteryear in my mind’s eye. He was the first celebrity I ever met.
I don’t remember the precise year, but it was somewhere in the early 1950s when I was a mere tyke. I recall that my mother and I had just left Joseph’s, which sold men and boys clothing, at Fourth and Penn streets in downtown Reading.
And there parked on Penn Street was the Oscar Mayer Wienermobile, with Little Oscar working the gathering crowd. He had that magnetic charisma. He attracted people like hot dogs attract mustard, relish and buns.
In the cold light of hindsight, I should have asked Little Oscar for his autograph that day. I don’t remember why I didn’t. Perhaps he didn’t have a mustard-colored Sharpie. I don’t recall, since time’s winged chariot has clouded my memory.
But I do recall my mother and I walking over to him. He smiled, patted me on my head, and called me Sonny. Nobody before or since has ever called me Sonny. And now that I’m an old man, I suspect the status quo will remain.
I do remember being struck by how short Little Oscar was for a grown man. And I do recall being quite impressed with the Wienermobile. After all, it was in color. It sure looked more vibrant than it did in the television commercials on our black-and-white TV set.
Truth be told, I still sometimes observe a moment of silence for Little Oscar while eating a hot dog. We apparently never forget our first celebrity crush.
Mike Zielinski, a resident of Berks County, is a columnist, novelist, playwright and screenwriter.
