Stalking James Bond

"The name is Bond. James Bond." Oh, how those mere words still turn my knees to jelly. It is a highly subjective topic of much debate, but we all have a favorite Bond, well, unless the Bond movies make you want to puke. From what I have seen out of most people who enjoy the Bond flicks, the Bond they grew up with is the Bond they prefer.

I grew up in the Roger Moore era, a child of the '70s, and teen of the '80s, and I would have to say Roger is probably my favorite Bond, despite the fact he has zero hair on his chest. Some women love the smooth chest, I feel that the Lord never intended for men to be skinny or hairless. But, for Roger's sake, I could learn to live with it. I must admit, however, as a child I detested these movies, and thought them ludicrous. I mean, what mere mortal man could survive plummeting from airplanes, skiing down extra-long dinner tables with bullets whizzing past his head, and then, still have the composure as well as desire and energy to engage in sex the other half of the time? But, I was a child then, and I had no active hormones. My God, how I wish such a man as Bond existed in my world now.

I can recall during the Summer of '79, how, for many weeks when I would go to 7-11 to get my "Big-Gulp" drink, the usual red, wax cup was replaced by a hard plastic take-home cup sporting action photos from the movie "Moonraker." I was unimpressed. I could only look at the photos and think, "why are these girls interested in this old fart?" It wouldn't be until many years later, when I reached my late twenties that I would truly appreciate, love, and dream of James Bond.