We’re Post-ing up in Calif.
We’re here. We’ve arrived. The New York Post. We are in California.
I mean, look at it this way: Ever hear anyone sing, “Montana, here we come”?
OK, so this West Coast got the sequoias? We got the Rockaways.
Malibu? We got Jones Beach.
They got statehood in 1850. Mazel tov. Our hot dogs are older than that.
Roads? Please. Two Hupmobiles plus the original Edsel at full 25 mph clog LA’s highway.
They got Anaheim. Yeah, so what?
Keep Clint Eastwood. We got Niagara, Bear Mountain, as well as the Met, Broadway, St. Pat’s, Park Avenue, Times Square, the Statue of Liberty — who won’t change into shorts — and the Brooklyn Bridge, which will not connect Palm Springs.
Calm yourselves: Tiny Laguna’s no Coney Island. Alcatraz? Please. We got Rikers. Shrunken Palm Springs? We got big Central Park.
New York’s forever fabulous New York Post was first to get a lawyer who said, “Washington did not chop down that cherry tree. The thing was a spruce.”
And famous faces? Please. It’s home to Britain’s formerly permanently unemployed, semi-VIP Harry, and his sweet wife Meghan, who once tested for the lead in “Bonnie and Clyde.”
Another thing. Tuna? You got them in a can. We got John Catsimatidis. You got Death Valley? We got the Long Island Expressway.
And if you don’t count Bugsy Siegel, Fatty Arbuckle, O.J., it’s also got grizzlies.
Chewing out the Big Apple
Look, NYC’s got the No. 1 bagels, world’s best steak, Junior’s famous cheesecake, so I’m not moving. But your land out west has things to admire, like beaches, mountains, deserts and the only slightly used wedding outfits worn for the marriages of Elizabeth Taylor Hilton Wilding Todd Fisher Burton Burton Warner Fortensky.
And you’re not near Newark, where when I parked my car I lost four hubcaps. Note: No truth to the talk that Palm Springs plans to relocate on Pitkin Avenue. That rumor began with Mayor Crapdammy and was supported by Kamala, and that three-named ex-bartender whose vast knowledge extends to gin fizz ingredients.
Sea, San and sun
California. Home of everything beginning with “San,” which is Spanish for “saint.” One thing New York lacks. We should have San Bronx? San Pitkin Avenue? I mean, San Gowanus Canal just doesn’t do it.
This strip of land next to the Pacific, named for saints, brought cities like San Jose, San Juan Capistrano, Sans Carlos, Clemente, Bernardino, Mateo and the prison town of San Quentin.
No Santa Cindy, but the White House is working on that.
The place has the Hollywood sign, Silicon Valley, forests, Golden Gate, Fortune 500 companies, an LAPD that goes after miscreants in new Lamborghinis.
And don’t repeat my personal White House knowledge, which is that Donald has no interest in downtown Montecito . . . maybe just Main Street.
Also — excuse the expression — LA’s got Gavin Newsom. I am finished. I now return to learning the words of any song that rhymes with “No snow Sacramento.”
This story originally appeared on NYPost
