I’ve lived in a few other states. This is why California is totally different, dude

The first week of the new year will mark my 10th anniversary at The Bee and in California. These have been life-altering experiences.

I was born in Minnesota, lived there for two stretches, and I am about to have spent more time here than there.

This has led me to self-identify as a Californian — though, in a weird way, all Americans grew up in California.

That’s because we grew up watching TV shows created and shot in California. From my snowy upbringing, I marveled at the palm trees, the suburbs, the car culture.

Americans of a certain age — my age — experienced California by watching “The Brady Bunch,” “The Streets of San Francisco,” “Dragnet,” “L.A. Law,” “CHiPs” and “The Rockford Files.” We are all virtual California natives — even Ron DeSantis. (OK, maybe not him. He looks more like a Minnesotan, with his flat, dour affect and off-the-rack suits.)

Now, if you live in Minnesota for 10 years, you will not be allowed to call yourself a Minnesotan. It wouldn’t be credible. You can’t fake that accent. Trust me.

I mean, you have to eat lye-soaked lutefisk just to take the entrance exam, and I never even did that.

I also lived in Oregon for 28 years and, oddly, never thought of myself as an Oregonian. Oregonians were extremely particular and defensive about whom they admitted. So I camped in my Minnesota persona, hoping Oregonians wouldn’t notice.

I vividly remember a conversation with my then-friend Bill O’Reilly. Yes, that Bill O’Reilly. He was a local Portland anchor back in the ’80s, and he told me he would live in Oregon for a few years and then run for governor.

I said, “Uh, look, that ain’t happening. You gotta be born here. They even have a group called SNOB, the Society of Native Oregon Born.”

So Bill moved on. He lasted only nine months in Oregon.

When I left Oregon for California, I knew it would be a major cultural leap. After all, I had spent 28 years in the rain and a decade or more in the snow.

While crossing the Oregon/California border on New Year’s Eve, I noted without irony that the wall of clouds ended pretty much at the state line. It was sunny skies ahead as I worked my way down I-5.

The Sacramento area proceeded to remain brilliantly sunny during months of dreary downpours in Oregon.

The first sign I noted about my self-identification as a Californian was that I stopped caring about clothes. In Oregon, I was a natty Armani aficionado and Gore-Tex collector. Heck, I maybe even had an Armani fleece.

That all went into the closet the second I moved into my house with a hot tub. I became so uninterested in luxury clothing labels that loincloths began to look good to me, even if I never once thought I would look good in a loincloth.

Then I noticed a lot of flip-flop chatter and heated arguments about the right sandals creeping into conversations with colleagues.

“Dude (I began saying ‘Dude’ the minute I arrived in California), everyone knows Reefs are the best. They have that little air cushion.”

Meanwhile, I suddenly had a perpetual tan I hadn’t even known I could achieve. I even wore SPF 50 sunblock to no effect. People in Oregon noticed immediately.

“Wow, you look different. Like you don’t have a massive vitamin D deficiency.”

I began to think of Oregon as merely California’s northernmost county, a place to drive through on the way to Seattle.

Soon after arriving in California, I took up golf. Like, I took up golf three to five days a week. I golfed in flip-flops (Reefs — they have an air cushion). I agonized over my short game. I fussed over my putting. I spent $250 on a putter.

I became a Californian with an ease that is impossible in any other state. Do you think you can live in Texas for 10 years and then call yourself a Texan? No, Bubba, yew cain’t. You can’t put on being a New Yorker or a Vermonter either.

But you can ease into being a Californian. Have a pinot. Get the curb feelers on your wheels. Grow your hair surfer-length (I did).

The late rock musician Chris Cornell sang of “looking California and feeling Minnesota.” That’s not me; I might be the opposite.

So what’s feeling California? It’s chill, dude — almost as effortless as watching TV.