Jesús and the Bunny

WELCOME to Jesús and the Bunny Online, the eponymous web site of Christopher Bradley's highly acclaimed print zine. Have a peek around to explore his writings and witticisms, and feel free to leave a comment on the contact page!

As of Sept. 21, 2009, I am in Pavia, Italy, studying at the ancient University of Pavia. Check back here for updates and Italia-inspired writings!

The Latest on the Web (18 Aug. 2010):

*The author's "Broadway Agog For Empathy" is featured in the spring issue of Unbound, the University of Oregon creative arts journal.

*One may find a short account of the author's Catching the Travel Bug on the web site of Ethos, a UO print and online quarterly. (The author also recommends "Flush of Culture," an article about a very dear subject: foreign toilets and bathroom habits.)

Updates from Italy

18.08.10. The chewable toothbrush.

I passed through the Frankfurt-Hahn airport a few days ago as I returned from a ten-day sojourn in France. It was confusing to fly in and out of Germany for a vacation in France, my first and last words of the trip being guten Tag and auf Wiedersehen; but it would seem to be historically-justified confusion, and an essential part of the Alsatian experience. Towns in that region have an old habit of country-switching, and even now that the borders are fixed, a simple walk across a bridge can take you abroad. It’s best to listen for the alerts on your cell phone that inform you when you’ve crossed which border.

But I sat down here today to write about bathrooms. I used one at the Frankfurt-Hahn airport this Monday past and wish to tell you about it. This bathroom, though within a budget-airline hub, displayed spectacular hygiene. All was touch-free, and the room’s pure shining white gave me the impression of being walled in by iPods. There were also dental goods to buy: a breath-freshening spray, a standard toothbrush, and, for the manually disinclined, a chewable toothbrush.

I’ve known many who chew their toothbrushes, the bristles quickly coming to resemble the skewing tentacles of a sea anemone. But this chewable toothbrush was meant to be inserted wholly, and purposefully masticated. It cost one euro and came with minty crystals.

The item tumbled out of the machine in a clear plastic ball, about the size of a mirabelle. The toothbrush, in the words of US patent 6769828, consisted of a “pliable bristle anchor” topped by said bristles, with a petite nob sticking out the side as a handle. Among the bristles were the quartz-like mint crystals.

I would not be letting this chewable toothbrush take a stroll down Easy Street. I had brought to the airport a sandwich of crumby baguette, stringy ham, and corrosive fromage, and upon finishing this I enjoyed a toffee for dessert. Then I inserted the chewable toothbrush.

Thousands of lilliputian minty feet were suddenly trotting along my tongue as the brush’s plaque-fighting xylitol diffused. I began to chew, and the bristles displayed an admirable balance of stiffness and flexibility, scraping my teeth clean without cutting my gums. The brush did, however, continue working its way back toward my throat, and it nearly induced a gag reflex numerous times. For all of this toothbrush’s magic, I believe its use would have been a net loss had I re-put my baguette.

After chewing for a time, I placed the brush back in its ball and boarded my plane. Two days hence, I do believe that there is a niche for the chewable toothbrush. It lets you clean your teeth in situations not otherwise possible, or else inopportune—as boasts competitor Rolly Brush, the product “works like a traditional toothbrush but more discreetly”—and it probably only rarely makes you throw up. The chewable toothbrush may even have already caught on. As its Wikipedia entry reads (yes, it, too, has a Wikipedia entry), it is “commonly available from bathroom vending machines.” Could this be true? Or was this entry merely written by a fellow, presumptive Frankfurt-Hahn traveler? Perhaps someone can enlighten me. But now I must go. It is midday, and time to enjoy one of my new proctal lunch capsules.◊

12.08.10. To the sea.

A late summer breeze has nipped the calendar and flipped us over to August. In Italy that means ferragosto, a holiday phase that can range from a few days to the whole month, depending on a given family’s wherewithal to vacate. Ferragosto is also the lens through which Italians view our summer vacations: President Obama, according to the national newspaper Corriere della Sera, will in coming days enjoy his own politically-correct “ferragosto” in petrol-pummeled Florida. Me, I’ve been vacating for some time now, alternating traveling with English teaching in Pavia, a situation many of my friends with more structured obligations call “doing nothing.” Whatever I am doing, I am content and will not argue the point. But it recently gave me the opportunity to spend a week conducting English lessons in the Italian Riviera, a ferragosto hotspot.

My destination was petite Ceriale, a postcard town in the region of Liguria, where I would be staying with a Pavian family as an in-house tutor. Since October I have been doing lessons with the family’s boys, ages four, eight, and twelve. Although they are officially on summer vacation, mother and father thought it best not to let their sons’ English erode on the beach along with the wine bottles washing over from Spain. … (continued here)