I heard it on All Things Considered on NPR. Age quashes our spirit of adventure.

Really? Do they know any gay people?

A neuroscientist, probably funded by a stupendous government grant, was interviewed about his theory that there’s a certain age when the typical American passes from the novelty stage to that of utter predictability. They cross over to Old Fartism.

I laughed when the NPR correspondent explained that if a person in Nebraska hasn’t tasted sushi by age 26, the likelihood of that person ever eating sushi in their lifetime was about the same as me getting into a size 6.

I know they didn’t consider gay people in this particular Bell curve, because for us, it’s pretty much out of the closet and into a Japanese Restaurant.

I howled when I heard that youngsters who have not had their tongues pierced by age 22 probably will never have it done. I believe this one, straight or gay. Therth no way I would conthider having my tongue pierthed, no matter what the purported benefiths.

I did, however, get a tattoo at age 56, when the rest of the tattooees in the shop, clearly heterosexual boys and girls, wore dental retainers and got there on learner’s permits.

I just think that gay people have a wonderful spirit of adventure well into old age. My late mentor Anyda Marchant penned her last novel at age 92 and hopped up and down with delight when the printer delivered the books to her door. Bonnie celebrated her 40th birthday by screaming as she thundered by on a roller coaster. I know somebody who got her first kayak for her 75th birthday. And who can forget the gay men and women of a certain age who still work day and night for a week turning our Convention Center into a South Beach club for Sundance. They are the anti-fuddy duddy.

How come? I think it’s caused by the coming out process.

Face it, after struggling to come out to ourselves, to our friends, then to the family and colleagues, doctors, the mailman and the rest of our universe—and then having to keep coming out, and gauge just how far to come out, every single time we meet somebody new, adventure ain’t got nothing on us. Every day’s an adventure.

I try to resist stereotypes, and I’m sure there are pockets of adventurous adult heterosexuals all over the globe, but even my straight friends often say they envy gay people for their audacious lives. "You and your friends do such extraordinary things and have so much fun," I’ve been told, time and time again, by slightly green-eyed straight people.

Of course, they might just be envying lives unencumbered by offspring, orthodonture and tuition. While that’s a plausible explanation, I don’t buy it.

After all, lots of gay people have children from previous straight relationships and more are starting their own gay nuclear families every day. Even laden with diapers, strollers and ice-cream covered babies these people still seem to have more escapades in their plans and mischief in their souls than most straight people schlepping the same baby buggies.

Could this heightened sense of adventure actually be caused by our delayed social development? Notice I did not say "arrested" development like Falwell or Limbaugh would rant. No, our delayed socialization turns out to be an adventure generating thing.

Unlike our straight peers, most of us gay folk (at least from my boomer generation) got a very late start in the dating department. I don’t know about you, but I never made out in the moonlight, took skinny dips, or went to a dance club with someone I actually wanted to share those activities with until I came out of the closet—at age 30.

I wasn’t 14 the first time I kissed someone and melted, I was 31. I wasn’t 18 the first time I danced until dawn at a crowded, throbbing disco, I was 33. And I wasn’t a teenager when every song on the radio made me sigh or cry. I was 34.

Getting such a belated start makes you want to make up for lost time. I spent my thirties and forties at Gay Roller Skating nights, theme parties, dance bars and marching for gay rights with the same intensity—or more—than I had when I marched for peace in 1967.

I’m pretty sure this tardy introduction to glee is the key to gays breaking the dreaded fuddy-duddy barrier.

Just last week I spied a friend out riding her newly purchased Segway—that two wheeled vehicle where you stand up and buzz along, balancing yourself like a dreidel.

She offered to let me try the contraption.

For some reason, coward and klutz that I am, and, alas, pushing my sixth decade, I had this inexplicable urge to take off on the thing. I got a helping hand up on the Segway,

steadied myself and sped off, wailing "wheeee" as I rolled down the street, jowls and chins flapping in the breeze.

The following night I was invited to a 60th birthday party where 100 menopausal and post-menopausal women danced, drank, and pretty nearly brought disco itself back from the dead.

I adore our gay spirit of adventure and have absolutely no intention of letting that old rocking chair get moi. However, I altho will never, ever get my tongue pierthed no matter how adventuruth I may become. Some things, like nose rings, MTV and midriff baring shirts are much better left for the young and the chestless.

As for me, I’m off on a trip to Beijing and Shanghai. My next column will come to you from the Great Wall. That kind of adventure beats getting an eyebrow stapled any day.

As they say in China, Tsingtau! It’s the only word I know and it means pass the Chinese Beer.