A very famous and talented actor died this week.
Philip Seymour Hoffman was discovered on the floor of his bathroom with a needle in his arm and a lot of heroin nearby.
His body was found when he failed to pick up his three kids from their mother.
Five days later the media continues to pick at the story like flies on a carcass while hailing Hoffman as one of the greatest actors of his time; a wonderful man and father. Our cultural loss is apparently immeasurable.
Avoidable death is always tragic. Beyond that, I don’t know what to think.
I understand that addiction is an insidious disease that claims many innocent victims. On the other hand, this guy left three young children to grow up without their father.
I had a treasured friend named Fred who killed himself a few years ago. He put a gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger. His son found him a couple of days later.
I still love Fred and but I also hate his guts for what he did.
As the media fawns over Philip Seymour Hoffman I find myself curiously unmoved.
And, I’ve decided that’s okay. There are some things I just can’t figure out.