He may not have been the “best” Bond, but he was my Bond, the one I grew up with.

My parents used to take me to his movies regularly, and it was always a thrill. The iconic, deadly cool theme music, the risque opening in which you could kind-of-and-kind-of-not see naked women, and then the whole camp fantasy of being a handsome and unflappable spy– it was all immensely appealing to a boy on the cusp of puberty.

Kind of like a Wes Anderson film, the Bond movies starring Roger Moore were a child’s vision of the adult world — a comic book fantasia made manifest, but one that promised to be safe, free from the dreary weight of all the unimaginable day-to-day realities that lay ahead.

I was 13 when Moonraker came out. Jaws, a lurching behemoth with steel fangs, was the primary villain, and he was awesome. At the end of the film, after Bond had coasted to victory and Jaws was pulling himself out of the rubble of some foiled plan, a tiny blonde– busty, pigtailed and bespectacled– appeared to help him. Jaws turns and smiles, his metal teeth glinting, and she smiles back. It’s love at first sight, and they then exit into some charming and eccentric future together.

What I remember, and what everybody I have asked remembers about this scene, is that the woman ( Dolly) had braces. This was what connected the two. In spite of their size difference, they were soul mates in braces. It was the sort of thing a 13 year-old kid, the type of kid who might actually have had braces, and that the movie was trying to appeal to, instantly related to. All of us watching, in the midst of our tortured, monstrous throes of puberty, hoped to find a Dolly, too. It was something that resonated deeply and stayed with us.

Anyhow, in returning to the YouTube clip of the scene, I saw that it was clear that Dolly did not have braces.

I mean, I had been fucking positive she had braces.

This braces-less reality seemed utterly impossible to me, like discovering I was a Replicant and not a human at all, but there it was.

No braces.

Anyhow, if like me, you remember Hannibal Lecter saying, “Hello, Clarice,” or Darth Vader intoning, “Luke, I am your father,” or Sally Field shouting, “You like me, you really like me!” while accepting an Oscar, then you have apparently experienced what I have just discovered is known as the Mandela Effect.

Now what the Mandela Effect is, is complicated, Internet complicated, and it’s layered in the sort of conspiratorial proofs that only online culture can provide.

Dive deep, if you wish:

Without tunnelling into the rabbit holes surrounding this phenomena, I will simply say that what clearly emerges from all this is that our memory, be it individual or collective, is incredibly unreliable. Sometimes, what we believe to be true, what we know in our bones to be true, what even our tribe agrees is true, is not true. Memory is mysterious, a product of our consciousness that is constantly being constructed and revised, existing as a work in progress rather than some immutable photograph we can reference at will. Everything is in flux, and the truth, as unpalatable as it is, is that we know nothing for sure, and are very, very easily manipulated. In the furious age of Trump, it’s wise to keep this in mind before launching a scorched earth assault on anything that might contradict our world view. We would all benefit from a little less certainty and a little more kindness, I think.

1. The Smiling Poncho (All staff must wear a poncho, and the chef will wear a sombrero with little, hooked fish hanging off the brim. It will be fun!)

2. Fish and Ships (You will sell ship knickknacks as an alternate revenue stream at the front desk.)

3. Clamorama (Deep-fried clams will be a specialty.)

4. Blood In The Water (This Risto will have a shark-attack themed décor. It will really stand out from the crowd and when you order the signature plate of paella, the theme music to Jaws will play as the serving staff brings it out. We will be a destination for birthday and bachelor parties, so if legal, we will have all serving staff working in bikinis and speedos. GAY FRIENDLY.)

4. Los Peces Sexy (Obviously, this means The Sexy Fish in Spanish. Consider Tango dance lessons in the evening?)

5. Scales And Males (This would be a gay restaurant)

6. Scales And Tails and Males (This would be a more flamboyant and risque gay restaurant)

7. Something Fishy. (This is cute, and I think that each night you should stage a marine-themed murder mystery production as entertainment for the dining guests.)

8. Crabbies (Part of the appeal of this incarnation would be the gruff, sailor-like atmosphere and service.)

9. Fishing for a compliment? (Could become popular with people on first dates!)

10. The Fishcotheque (On the weekends it a disco and fine seafood restaurant.)

Me: You coming to Barbados for the big surf competition, Soup Bowl?

Man who looked like Chomsky: What?

Me: Barbados. The surf competition. It’s like their version of the Super Bowl, only in water.

Man who looked like Chomsky: No, I have other business, although I do like the beach.

Me: I’d like to surf but I’m scared. I used to be scared of sharks when I was a boy but now I’m scared of jellyfish. They’re taking over the oceans.

Man who looked like Chomsky: (Said nothing)

Me: Are you Noam Chomsky?

Man who looked like Chomsky: Yes.

Me: WOW!! I thought so!

Chomsky: (Nods)

Me: So, what’s up with Occupy Wall Street?

Rachelle: (In a whisper-hiss) Pickle, be quiet, for the love of God!

Chomsky: I don’t know what you mean.

Me: I hear they’re buying up debt from collection agencies and then forgiving it. I would LOVE it if they bought some of my debt. Do you have any sway in that?

Chomsky: No, I don’t.

Me: You know, you’ve really shaped a lot of minds over the decades. I bet a lot of college kids name their pets after you. Thousands of dogs and cats named Chomsky.

Rachelle: I’m sorry, my husband is dehydrated and only slept for an hour last night. Please forgive us.

Chomsky: I see.

Me: If I was an anarchist like you I wouldn’t wait in line. I’d just charge right through, upset the system and start a revolution by hitting the beach!

Chomsky: You do like the sound of your own voice, don’t you?

Me: I’m just social and maybe a little nervous meeting you, I guess.

Chomsky: I’m sorry, I just need to be alone with my thoughts, okay?

(Several minutes pass)

Me: You’re going to be really hot wearing that corduroy jacket on the island, you know.

Chomksy: (Ignores me)

Me: (Whispering to Rachelle) I can’t believe he has a corporate logo on his laptop bag. Adidas? Really? They must have paid for his trip.

Rachelle: (Whisper-hiss) Just find your passport and shut-up, okay?

(Awkward silence for the rest of our wait to customs)