It’s early March 2024, which I keep forgetting until the date pops up on my phone and startles me by the sheer audacity time has for making February end so soon. Since it’s a chilly day with a strong coastal breeze, breaking the sunny warm glow of tank and bikini weather promises us East Coasters feel California made to us, so we’re sitting in our car. We’re by Corona Del Mar, and me and my siblings watch the gulls on the scraggly cliffs and strangers racing RC vehicles in the parking lot while our parents decide where to go next. This wasn’t our first time in California in less than six months, and despite how much I adored the first trip, I wish this one had never happened. We’d taken one during some of September and October the year before, and I still hold those memories, some of my brightest, to my chest when times are rough. It also resulted in significant drainage from my parent’s bank accounts akin to a leaky faucet left running overnight, so we thought returning in even three (or max, five) years was out of the question. What changed?

Well, my Grandma died. They tend to do that, yes, but it nevertheless came as a shock and was, predictably, not ideal in a myriad of ways. 

That was late December. I was still riding the high (and exhaustion) of the trip, and seeing her in person for the first time after six or so years felt like yesterday; helping her put up a truly absurd amount of Halloween decorations, visiting the jelly belly factory and seeing a disconcerting amount of Ronald Regan paraphernalia, and eating Jack in The Box in her mobile home that was bursting with pastel pink, crosses and bible quotes, family photos, and of course: a truly awe-inspiring and inexplicable hoard of rabbit related items? I didn’t even really think of those moments as “memories” yet, because why would I look back on something that happened only two months ago with nostalgia?

I meant to text her. I was trying to come up with some sort of Christmas present. She wasn’t exactly a consistent present in my life, due to the sheer distance between us geographically, but I was going to at least halfheartedly attempt to bridge that gap more. I didn’t get the chance. 

My mom came into my room to wake me up, and then closed the door behind her. Pro-tip for all teens with a similar home life: if your mother comes in with a weird air about her and closes the door behind her, I’d highly recommend booking it out the window and illegally immigrating to Canada to live in your friend’s shack in the woods, because you will not like whatever news she’s about to tell you.

I did indeed not like the news she had to tell me. Keep your passports up to date kids, never know when you might be fleeing to Canada!

So suddenly, we had to pack up our literal and emotional baggage and fly back to the West Coast for a funeral. Oh joy! One of these I’m better at packing up then the other, as it was a struggle to the death to shut my case every time I opened it there and TSA gives me borderline anxiety attacks. But the emotional baggage is compressed, neat, and tidy in it’s little box and placed in the metaphorical attic where I don’t have to deal with it.

Before you criticize my tone for such a tragic topic, which is…Fair, honestly, but it’s not my fault. I’m convinced it’s a genetically inherited trait so I had no decision in the matter. The day after we got the news, my mom was on a call with her brother and sister-in-law. They were worried about spilling her ashes by accident, and then proceeded to joke about accidentally vacuuming them up, and having to keep an ancient vacuum cleaner as a memento-quasi-gravestone-thing forever and passing it down through the generations. “Why do you keep that ancient vacuum cleaner in your closet Kevin, why haven’t you gotten rid of it? We can’t get rid of it, Caty, that’s Mom!”

My mother’s family excels at comedy. Typical emotional responses come less naturally to them. So the dice roll of nature goes. 

This brings us back to all five of my crew packed into our rental car. It’s the day after the funeral, and we’re trying to make the most of things by hitting a few sights while we’re here. My mom opens Google Maps, presumably trying to find the directions to our next planned destination. Something about a particularly impressive mall. 

What comes up instead is a place called “Bunnyhenge”. 

You remembered my seemingly irrelevant anecdote about my grandmother’s house, right? Her love and excess of rabbits were deep and passionate. Most frequent were toy rabbits, stuffies and dolls, but there were rabbit lamp toppers and placemats and pillows and lights, etc etc. I could not give you a real estimate of the strength of her troops, all I know is there were multitudes of them, rabbit merch in every corner and crevice of her home, and enough that they were given away at her funeral. Captain Crane and Mrs. Debi Cilantro, my two tag-alongs home from the memorial, send their regards. 

Naturally, the title Bunnyhenge attracted some interest for this reason alone. Of course, we’re going, we have to honor her memory, right? Also, what sort of place is named Bunnyhenge? What does that even entail? 

Well, it entails fourteen concrete bunnies in a cult-style circle formation in a public park as it turns out. They were brought into existence in this universe, but within the confines of Newport Beach (likely to prevent anything but minimal exposure to the ethereal plane), for either modern art or children’s entertainment purposes. In addition to the fourteen, there are two other larger bunnies, the “guardians” as me and my sister nicknamed them, one at the entrance and one somewhat up the hill to the main display. 

It is not immediately clear where the rabbits are in the park, as you meet one of the guardians at the entrance, but can’t spot the rest from there. There is also no signage or direction, just weaving trails up the hill. Cue three teens/tweens running rabidly through the park in search of the fabled subject of our pilgrimage. My parents opted to proceed at a reasonable pace, and still somehow got there only a few minutes after. Go figure. 

Finally, after trekking all the way to the other side of the park, you find them. They’re everything you hoped for. Everything you need in your life, and you can die happy. You can now consult the council of these eldritch beings. Or, alternatively, ride the council of eldritch beings. 

The rabbits are a perfect size for seating, and their ears make great handlebars, making them popular with younger devotees to their sect. The bunnies are identical, pure white, with no detail paint except for the eyes. Some of their ears are worn, likely from enthusiastic rodeo riders, but otherwise, they’re in good shape with little to no paint chipping. They were very likely all created from the same molds, perhaps even as one singular piece with no assembly required. To my memory, the eyes come in three colors: yellow, red, and blue. Is there meaning to that, artistically, spiritually, metaphysically, or otherwise? I have no idea. I don’t think, as mortals, we’re meant to grasp such things. What I do know is bunny henge poses a spectacular opportunity as an alternative to zodiac signs. Here’s my pitch: the year is divided into four modules, and when you are born determines your bunny and the eye color is the equivalent to the elemental aspect with each as a symbol for…Something. Someone with more superstition and creativity than me can take over this idea, I’d just like credit and 30% royalties. 

Only a few yards away, Ronald Regan in life-size statue form appears to be asking for a high-five. In my opinion, despite my distaste for the man, I’m impressed by his commitment to follow me wherever I go in California. He adds to the sheer absurdity of Bunnyhenge as well, because I cannot for the life of me understand why the decision was made to place him right next to a cult of rabbits and not any of the more serious sculptures. 

There is also an ariel view of Bunnyhenge, if one so desires to use it. Right behind Regan is a viewing area available via stairs or elevator. The elevator feels like a deathtrap and the viewing era collects water and moves in the wind too much for my taste. If you couldn’t tell, I am not a fan of the viewing area, as I tend to value my limbs and life. Admittedly, it is structurally sound, safe, a beautiful view, etcetera. I am simply, as the internet would say, a hater. A hater of tall, wobbly objects specifically. My friends would counter that I am a tall, wobbly object myself, but I counter-counter that another thing I am a hater of is myself.

However, I am not the only hater in this story. Bunnyhenge had its fair share of detractors when it was erected in 2014. Certain Newport Beach residents and politicians oppose what they see as excessive spending on the part of the city government, and Bunnyhenge became a symbol of their ire when it was discovered the gathering of artificial hares cost over 200,000 dollars to create. Yes, you heard me right, Newport Beach residents opposed excessive spending. I’m not entirely sure what they want their tax money to be used on instead, another indoor swimming pool for the local public school? Personally, I think we should direct this frustration at the frequent displays of Mr. Regan. California, you do not need more and already have far too many. I’m getting concerned. The statues will not serve as conduits to raise the dead, he’s not coming back. Search your jelly beans for signs of the second coming if you must, but leave me out of it.

One city council candidate at the time, Mr. Scott Peoter, shot a campaign video on the subject. It featured the line “Well, some people take it a little bit further, and they say we need to blow up the boxes. Well, in this case, we need to blow up the bunnies!”, followed by a digital rendering of a rabbit, stock image explosions, fire, and a mediocre rendering of the bunny’s heads being blown to bits. If only more campaign ads were like that. This is the most fun I’ve had since Biden’s Dark Brandon mug.

To my infinite disappointment, I have yet to find this graphically violent declaration of war upon Bunnykind intact. I acquired a snippet, but not the whole video. Perhaps, as the cement cryptids have lasted a decade, the former councilman has deleted it out of a deep shame for his failure. If this is true, I’d like to address Mr. Scott Peoter personally: commit to the bit, my good sir. Even though we are on opposite sides of the aisle on this issue, I expect my public officials to stick to their word when it comes to cartoonish violence on principle, because I can respect integrity and dedication. Even when I feel blowing up rabbit statues is a kind of absurd campaign statement. 

Additionally, Google Maps’s out-of-date street view of the park shows various brightly colored cows scattered throughout the park. I saw none when I visited, which in my opinion is a crying shame. Maybe Mr. Peoter lost his battle with his most loathed and powerful adversary but succeeded in blowing up some concrete cattle. It appears they were there post his term as city councilmember, so this may be a case of vigilante act of extra-judicial justice on his part. Alas, I suspect we will never know the answer to this intriguing cold case. 

Other notable sights from the park you can see nowadays include: a concrete bench representing various books, including my beloved Lightning Thief by Rick Riordan, along with classics such as The Grapes of Wrath, Pride & Prejudice, and The Art of Body Surfing; a Monkey in a red thong doing pull-ups (no, I don’t have context for that one); and a large pair of feet, also made of concrete and painted white in a style reminiscent of our old friends (or for this either). 

So what’s the takeaway from all this? Well, first of all, go visit Bunnyhenge if you have the chance. Second of all, the stages of grief are a lie, google map suggestions are the truth. Third of all, life is a lot more fun if you can find value in the weird bits. Life is disconcerting, unpredictable, and deeply odd, and the more you find value in that the happier you will be. Take your time to grieve, but love is also remembering someone with a giggle. It’s still opening that box in the attic, a little. Love is taking the time to remember that person, and what mattered to them.

So go out and find the absurd, love hard and weird, and visit Bunnyhenge.