I canâÄôt seem to get a grip on life quite yet at the University. Maybe itâÄôs the leaves turning into little romantic missiles, or maybe itâÄôs the random days of cold reminding me that winter is coming again. It always seems like you should be doing something, but every corner in the day always has a family-style buffet of decisions and otherwise. I should peruse John WinthropâÄôs âÄúMercyâÄù and John WinthropâÄôs âÄúJustice,âÄù but some Anonymous from 4chan.org leaked Gov. Sarah PalinâÄôs e-mail address and now I have to sprint to the random sequences of âÄúLolâÄùcats, rule 34 abominations, and hormone-enraged teenagers. I forgot: DonâÄôt go to 4chan, never get off the boat. I should call my cousin to talk, but now Tomas, Pablo Honey and I are driving past the sunlit riverside mansions to Minnehaha Park for some good olâÄô fashioned flamenco dancing. People, mostly middle-aged and toting large cameras, are being led down the stone stairs by gypsies tightly wrapped in purples and reds. The trees around us are gorgeous with the slanted sun streaming through, and when we come to the grassy basin I realize how great this diversion is: The dance company is completely involved with the play of gypsies. An old woman in a rough, brown hood jitters over to pick up sprigs along the woods, and a vested gentleman in green is pushing a stick through the calm, rocky pond. The main character of this piece, Yerma, is bound in sky-blue or graying garments, and has touches of lavender along the sharp motions of her face; she never really looks at the crowd when she dances, but everyone is rapt with how she stomps so loudly to the amplified Spanish guitar in the background. The gypsies lead us throughout the park to various stages, one between a crowd of birches, another atop a limestone gorge and the last next to small brook. Somehow, two well-toned men in lion and bull masks (featuring black spandex with red codpieces) sneak into the mix at the limestone gorge. They start seducing all the gypsies into dancing with them, and by modes of thrusts and snake-like motions, they drop each of them to the ground. Stuff like this makes a man think strange thoughts âĦ My pocket vibrates and I begin a texting frenzy with a friend who wants to know what I am doing. I see Yerma drop to her knees and grab a handful of gravel and dust. Mournfully, she holds it out to the serious crowd, where a couple smiles beam out, and she stares at it for a second. She then yells at the crowd, âÄúLook!âÄù and allows the dust fall through her fingers. My pocket vibrates again, and I see her strange eyes look to the crowdâÄôs as her arms shrivel upon her torso. A demon with a gilded mask comes and covers her with a red cloth, wherefrom she leaves the stage, cowering over herself in shame. The gypsies regroup once again and dance vivaciously with the lion and the bull, resisting, but ultimately succumbing to them. My pocket buzzes, and I try to watch the hopeless eyes of the gypsies, but even I give in to the thrusts of the lion and bull. I soon left with Tomas and Pablo, throwing three bucks into the tip basket on the way out. I texted my friend back: âÄúWeâÄôre just leaving the dancing right now. Am going to eat. Whats up with you?âÄù We drive back in the night to the Hard Times Cafe, and splurge for orange juice, hummus, and hashbrowns before we arrive home to the dorms. I have not read Winthrop, I have not called my cousin, there is passato remote to memorize for Italian, and a friend has just begun chatting to me on AIM âĦ I should never get off the boat. But this is the University, where every distraction is a spark for a bright moment in life. Besides, there is always time for what you should do. Armed with this, I can forgive all my worries and accept a slice of pepperoni pizza from my friend, Lunchbox: And the slice was good. Matt Grimley welcomes comments at [email protected] .