I realized Friday night I'm no longer on the time clock of The Man.

That's right -- The Man.

I can do what I want as The Homeless Editor

(I should note that when I once ranted about The Man, my daughter, the genuis, stopped me. "Father," she always calls me "father" when serious, "you're a middle-aged white man who is editor of the local newspaper -- you ARE The Man."

Fair point, kid. Fair point.

So I stayed up until 5 a.m. today pounding out 20 pages of a screenplay I've had in my head for three years now. (Note to self: "Pounding out" seems to be an inelegrant phrase describing writing.)

Then I slept until 4 p.m.

As I near the work week again -- the so-called work week -- when I return the the world of searching for jobs, I will re-jigger my sleep schedule to show The Man I can capitulate when need be.

Until then, my time as The Homeless Editor is my own.