I met Roger Moore last night. For like a second. He was autographing books at Bookends in Ridgewood, New Jersey. The line went around the block. Actually, there were two lines: First to buy the book, next to get it signed. No autographs of books bought other than from that line that night—your receipt was your ticket. No personalized autographs. One autograph to a customer.
I guess, with a line around the block, all this was necessary, but it was very impersonal and kind of an emotional let-down. I’d been looking forward to this event for weeks.
Moore was friendly and charming, of course, winking at little kids and smiling. But it was an assembly line of the highest order and none of it felt real. But what the hey, I met him and I have an autograph. Life is good.