So another Hollywood heavy hitter is found dead surrounded by the paraphernalia of a life lost long before his pupils became fixed and dilated. A life rambling ever faster down a reckless road, flirting with disaster long before the smart phones and laptops started pinging with breaking news of the ‘terrible loss’ of a life cut ‘tragically’ short.

I will be called cold and callous but I do not feel sorry for Phillip Seymour Hoffman. He made the decisions that led to a filthy West Village apartment where police say up to 50 seals of heroin were littered… some full… many more empty… and a needle sticking out of his dead arm. He died alone in a drug-induced hell. His choice. Period.

His talent in front of a camera or a live audience is certainly not in question. He won a well deserved Oscar for his portrayal of Truman Capote. His performance was incredible. However that was in a world of make believe. His performance in the real world… like so many self indulgent members of the Hollywood side of psychosis was less than poor. His life was a mess.

I’ve had my challenges with drinking on occasion but I am accountable for my life and my decisions. I am not a victim and I do not have an illness. My cancer when I was a teenager was an illness, a disease. I can make a choice about drinking or sticking a needle in my arm. I've never decided to stick a needle in my arm for the record. I cannot decide for a tumor to go away but I can walk away from a drink. Like it or not that is true for everyone.

I think Phil’s death is a loss for my future entertainment but it will not affect how I sleep tonight. Again I do not feel sorry for him… I do feel sorry for the three kids he left behind. Unfortunately they may be doomed to follow his path. After all they will live in the shadow of their late famous father and may be drawn to the fictional idea that fame makes the famous victims. They are only victims of their own destructive decisions. Period.