Another interesting subject has raised its head on one of my e-mail discussion lists.

Some people on the list are exhausted just trying to keep up. Their claim is that too much art is being produced. There's no way to consume it all, these people claim, so life would be much easier if everyone cut back their artistic production.

What?

I've long maintained I was born at the best possible time for my tastes. I got to see the 1960s' musical British Invasion play out in front of me. I was able to see music move from gymnasiums to clubs to theaters to arenas. I was able to see music move from variety TV shows and Top 40 radio to free-form FM radio and prime-time specials, then to "Midnight Special" and "In Concert," then MTV and VH-1 and Napster and on and on.

But I've recently realized I'm wrong. If you're interested in art of any form, there's no ideal time to be born. There are centuries of work available. None of us will study every sculpture, admire every painting, watch every movie, read every book, listen to every piece of music.

Just because you live when art is produced doesn't mean you're aware of it. And the amount of art available doesn't preclude you from (a) finding worthwhile things; (b) cherry-picking what might interest you; and/or (c) missing something that might change your life simply because you're unaware of it.

The (literally) thousands of compact discs and hundreds of DVDs piled in stacks prove it to me, if nothing else does: If you think you're ever going to be able to appreciate all the art that's been produced, you're wasting your time. It's not going to happen.

There are certain art forms every generation discovers, each in its own way. As a pre-teen, I adored "Rowan and Martin's Laugh-In," a 60-minute quick-cut ensemble-cast sketch and blackout comedy show. (Knowing that then-presidential candidate in 1968 Richard Nixon appeared on the show delivering the trademark line "Sock it to me?" allowed John Carpenter to become the first American winner on "Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?")

My father would watch the show with me and make quiet remarks about having seen something on the program at another time. It didn't make much sense to me until almost 20 years later, when PBS ran a number of episodes featuring television pioneer Ernie Kovacs. Clearly, many of the ideas in "Laugh-In" had simply been lifted from Kovacs.

That didn't and doesn't make "Laugh-In" (or "Saturday Night Live," or David Letterman, also clearly Kovacs devotees) any less funny. And if anyone chooses to be a Letterman or "SNL" fan without checking out "Laugh-In" or Kovacs, that's fine as well.

There's such an emphasis in being "first" in our current arts consumption society. The attitude has especially helped weaken film's legitimacy as art and turned it into even more of a business proposition. We track film grosses like box scores, with the implication that the top film is the best film.

How often do we find that not to be the case?

The beauty in acknowledging that you can't keep up is that the work will almost inevitably be there. Granted, some things become limited in availability, but if you're worried about, say, the film "Knocked Up" or the new Maroon 5 album, someone will always have a copy to lend you.

Besides, you need preparation for some art. The Beach Boys' "Pet Sounds" means one thing if you listen to it before the first time you have your heart broken by someone, and something considerably different after that. Warner Brothers cartoons are significantly more subversive when you can understand what they're saying rather than simply being amused by the ADD of Bugs Bunny and Daffy Duck.

Acknowledging that you can't keep up with it all is the first sign of victory. There's always something around that just might change your life. Even if it's 40, 100 or 400 years old.

Tim Cain can be reached at timcain@herald-review.com or 421-6908.