`kam :: mediaslate.ca :: subfreq@gmail.com

Son: \’A feedburner?\’

Pa: \’No, a pig. What the heck\’s a feedburner?\’

Slideshow:
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It\’s a tough job, but someone\’s go to do it. With every RSS, ATOM and XML feed subscription, the feedmonster\’s fast-growing tendrils grow more bloated, branching farther into every reach of the World Wide Web. The voracious beast reminds me of Audrey, Jr., the carnivorous butterwort-Venus Flytrap plant that enslaved – and eventually devoured – its creator (Seymour) and others in the THE LITTLE SHOP OF HORRORS.

I, like Seymour, have become enslaved by my creation.

What started as a sideline is now sucking me dry, constantly demanding fresh content, blogroll links, widgets and tweaks to keep up with FeedBurner\’s and other enablers\’ never-ending stream of new offerings. I could live with that, if only supplementing original content with syndicated feeds and spliced-in audio-visual from other sources would satisfy the beast.

Unfortunately, a little care and feeding and seeding in outside content is no longer enough. I\’ve created a monster.

Echoing Seymour, I pleaded with the feedmonster: \

I confess: I wasn\’t safe-surfing. Taking a plunge, going all the way had seemed inconceivable. After all, no individual could come close to fulfilling my insatiable needs – regular intellectual stimulation, clever amusements, consistent variety, and a certain je ne sais quois – all in one feed. Could they?

So I satisfied my cravings by flirting. Sometimes under assumed identities, I submitted teasers here, come-hither invitations to my space there. I even used sugar daddies (like Blogger services and affiliate programs) and young bucks (like FeedBurner) to troll farther and wider, glam up my act, and collect pennies for my thoughts. Whoever, whatever sexy, clever, dapper prospect caught my fancy was fair game.

But my charms were bounded, for my jealously guarded blogroll was another tale altogether. That precious treasure chest, like a princess in a moat-encircled tower guarded by a firebreathing dragon, remained off limits. To all but The One, my vault would remain that way, locked down tightly, untouched, unpenetrated. Nay, it would never be sullied by common streamers who might exploit my vulnerability, paw at my posts, seed my feeds with imperfect, classless content and leave me in the lurch, mayhaps taking advantage by servicing other sites while consuming – even reserving – my sweet feeds.

Then along came my powerful, virile, hot! prince. He proved, at first blush, that he held the key to unlock my bloglist. I\’m no gold digger, but his robust, content-rich blog posts made me swoon and beg for more. Barely able to pull away long enough to eat, sleep or work, I ravenously collected every scrap of his RSS, ATM and XML feeds I could find, devouring every morsel on contact, and subscribing multiple feedreaders and email accounts to ensure I could go back for more and not a byte would escape.

That\’s how his podcasts hooked me. Each episode stimulated my senses, searing itself into my sensibilities, evoking feelings and thoughts I never knew were possible. They drove me wild. They inspired me, too, to find novel, creative ways to please and keep him coming back for more.

I have not ceased to tease. In fact, my new love has transformed me into a femme fatale extraordinaire. My burn feeds are now piping hot, charming and reaching ever-expanding audiences far and wide.

My frenzy for feeds and openness to posts, however, are reserved for Him. I\’ll never group blog or cheat on His and my commitment to devote our blogrolls to each other, thereby publicly declaring our exclusive union, forevermore.

Some of our feeds are private, but share most of our link-love openly; although sometimes titillating, even naughty, neither stream of posts and podcasts is dirty or shameful. Moreover, we like addressing and expanding the horizons of our large and growing audience, and knowing they are reading, watching, listening, commenting, subscribing (and even imitating us) makes burning feeds all the more pleasurable.

I knew it the moment she walked into my office that night; her lips scarlet red, her hair a billowing fountain of glowing blond curls, the clacks of her stiletto Blahniks piercing through empty air, floating towards me like Cupid’s lustful arrows: She definitely wasn’t here to talk about my Battlestar Galactica blog.