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Thomas Mann, the Nobel prize-winning novelist who, through no fault of his own, was German, once wrote: “A man lives not only his personal life, as an individual, but also, consciously or unconsciously, the life of his epoch and his contemporaries.”

I tried to tell my wife this the other night when she discovered me having sex with our neighbor, Maureen, whose husband has apparently been out of town. I was, I said, unconciously living his life — although Maureen seized upon this as an opportunity to make a rather crude joke about comparative genital size, which I thought was as unfair as it was unflattering.

But, in truth, who hasn’t yearned to be someone else? At one point or another, I’m sure we’ve all imagined different lives for ourselves, envisioned new names and exotic locales, siphoned funds from that corporate account to pay for forged passports, travel expenses, and the inevitable hush money when the police discover you didn’t really die in that warehouse fire back in ‘87.

It’s a natural and healthy curiosity. One could, I suppose, take that curiosity too far and forget where one personality ends and the next one begins — which is also what I tried to tell my wife the other night (once Maureen had finished doing that special trick she does with her tongue), but I think I had already upset her too much by mentioning Thomas Mann.

My wife, to be fair, is not terrifically fond of Thomas Mann. She says that I use my knowledge of history and literature simply as an excuse to do whatever it is that I want at any given time. This, I try to tell her, is what history and literature are for, and there’s little point in studying them if they won’t get you laid, but she usually just storms off angrily and leaves me with my books.

Maureen says that we should try to find some common interest, an author whose body of work we both can appreciate. “That’s easy for you to say,” I tell her, but of course it isn’t with her tongue occupied elsewhere, and I have to admit that she’s right. But that would mean talking to my wife about her interests, and I’m not sure I’m ready to do that.

You know something? I think it’s a shame that science hasn’t discovered another use for that gunk that forms in the corner of your eye every morning. I think that if we could harness its power and use it as, say, a cheap and effective rocket fuel, or as a weapon against the onslaught of alien invaders that would inevitably follow, then ending world hunger and insuring world peace couldn’t be too far behind. But science isn’t interested in that. It’s all we’ve got to cure cancer this, and hey, we’ve mapped the human genome that. Big deal. Scientists are too hung up on celebrity. All they care about anymore is getting their names in the paper, being photographed at trendy restaurants, having wild and sloppy sex with throngs of nubile groupies. The gunk that forms in the corner of your eye every morning is the last thing they’re thinking about, I can assure you. And that’s a shame. A lowdown dirty, rotten shame.

Personally, I blame Albert Einstein, the first celebrity scientist. Before him and his precious theory of relativity, if you were trying to unlock the secrets of the universe and create a better, brighter future for our children, most likely nobody gave a rat’s ass. You’d be lucky if you could get arrested, much less published in a reputable journal. And that’s how it was supposed to be. Science was supposed to be difficult.

But now National Geographic or Scientific America and its paparazzi are everywhere, and engineers are wined and dined regularly by Hollywood’s elite. Everywhere you look, science is tossing away thousands of dollars each year on frivolous pursuits like missions to Mars and curing disease. It’s a sad and sorry state of affairs. Meanwhile that gunk in the corner of your eye continues to form until eventually you can’t see straight and start walking into doors, bumping into people, and getting told to watch where you’re going, asshole, until eventually you trip over and die.

But the truth is, science doesn’t care. You could trip over and die a thousand times, and if there isn’t a movie deal, beach house, or big-breasted lingerie model in it for them, they’re going to tell you and that gunk in the corner of your eye to go to hell. And, in my book, that’s just wrong.