Los Angeles ? A so-called colleague — sensing a dearth of topics perhaps, or just trying to get me killed — suggested I set up a footrace against this superstar horse, Zenyatta, and write about the experience, though he cautioned against injury.

“Columnist put down after breaking leg in horse race,” the headline might read.

“We did everything we could inhumanely do,” the vets would say. “But in these situations, there is no treatment.”

“He went out with a whimper,” friends would note. “Big surprise, huh?”

I’m not above such stunts, of course. After all, I once scrimmaged against a women’s basketball team and recently watched the World Series from an ugly little canoe in San Francisco Bay. I didn’t leave my heart behind, nor did I abuse any performance-enhancing drugs — both beloved Bay Area traditions.

We live in strange times, I’m sure you’ve noticed. I mean, what kind of era do we live in when “Dancing With the Stars” draws more viewers than the World Series, as recently witnessed? Makes you want to move to Mars, doesn’t it? Or any place out of range of reality TV.

No, I am not much for reality, so I recently attended a UCLA football game, where I played beer pong against a couple of guys named Guillermo and Marco. This is a sport I can embrace, where the loser has to drink beer. I’m guessing that we’ll soon see beer pong replace chess as the pastime of sportswriters and other intelligentsia.

How it works is that you set up a bunch of plastic beer cups in a V-shape, like bowling pins. Then, relying on the eyesight of eagles and a jeweler’s touch, you plop a Ping Pong ball into your opponents’ cups. If you nail the three-foot shot, the opponent must drink the beery contents of the cup.

As you can see, it’s pretty much a win-win-win-win-win-win situation. Can you beer me now? What about now? Can you beer me now?

Normally, I disapprove of alcohol, but I had to see what all the beer pong fuss was about. You can barely walk across any major-college campus these days without knocking over a beer pong table or tripping over some professor.

“For some reason, I like Busch Light way better than Bud Light,” I overheard one young scholar say Saturday.

I think I remember debating that same issue myself in college (1975-87). Back then, Busch cost about a penny a can. Or maybe it was free.

Anyway, that was pretty much the highlight of my visit to the UCLA game, the beer pong, though I have to say that the overall tailgate experience near the Rose Bowl is always a winner. Here, in Los Angeles, there are only a couple of times a year when you come into contact with actual grass.

There were a bunch of us there last Saturday. One woman in an expensive blue sweater was passing around chunks of Johnsonville brats, toothpicks and all, and then you had Guillermo and Marco next to them with their grill and beer pong table.

Eventually, we had to wander over to the stadium, where some sort of game was going on, maybe football, maybe not. I always root for UCLA, the Charlie Browns of local football. I swear, every time they attempt a field goal, I half expect the holder to whisk the wall away at the last second and the kicker to go flying on his back. Arrrrrgh!

The last thing I remember about the game is an unrequited high-five. Ever had one of those? It’s when you stand up after a big play and go to high-five the dude next to you, but the dude sort of blows you off, leaving you hanging with an airball high-five. It’s a humbling moment, and you end up rubbing your palm against your sweatshirt, as if that’s what you really meant to do all along.

Who’s the Charlie Brown now, huh?