I heard about Roger Moore’s death during a walk in Brooklyn on Tuesday morning, when a young father looked up from his phone and said, “The worst James Bond ever just died.” He wasn’t talking to me, but rather to the toddler in the stroller in front of him, who seemed indifferent to the news. Kids these days.

I’m talking about the dad, another millennial blithely trashing the pop-culture affections of aging Gen-Xers like me.

Look, I’m not going to argue. I grew up being reminded at every turn that Sean Connery was the better Bond — the “real” Bond, as if such a ridiculous Anglo-American Cold War confection could stake any kind of claim to authenticity. The Connery consensus seemed like part of a larger baby boomer conspiracy to bully people my age into believing that everything we were too young to have experienced firsthand was cooler than what was right in front of our eyes. We have been struggling against that ever since, which is why we invented so much of the cool stuff that everyone takes for granted now.

Back in the ’70s and ’80s, the older 007 installments — especially “Goldfinger,” for some reason — showed up reliably on television, but for me they could never match the sublime, ridiculous thrill of seeing “The Spy Who Loved Me,” “Moonraker,” “For Your Eyes Only” and “Octopussy” on the big screen. Those movies were heavenly trash, with plots you didn’t really need to follow and sexual innuendo that struck my young eyes and ears as deliciously risqué.