Over the last decade or so I met and talked with Philip Seymour Hoffman maybe…I don’t know, six or seven times. Never for very long. He was amiable and easy-going enough. I took to calling him “Philly” in print because I once heard Bennett Miller call him that, and I figured what’s good for the goose is good for the gander. He always struck me as having at least a little disgust and anger about the things that educated, civilized people should be angry and disgusted about. He had a vaguely grumpy side. He clearly felt distaste for certain people and things, which of course was a good thing. (“Taste is a result of a thousand distastes” — Francois Truffaut.) But he never seemed like an addict type. I’ve known some self-destructive personalities, and I know a little something about why people allow heroin into their lives. It’s not about “pleasure” but immense relaxation. But Hoffman had so much love and talent and comfort in his life…respected, admired, top of his game. And with three kids, for God’s sake. I just don’t get it. I’m just…speechless. Hoffman had reportedly been struggling with smack. He had tried to get hold of the problem last year, obviously without lasting success. Deep down all addicts believe that brief drug vacations are worth their weight in gold because the idea of living without them seems intolerable. I know what that feeling is. When I had my vodka problem in the early to mid ’90s I used to say and write that “life would be unbearable without alcohol.” That was another life, thank God. Everyone is sad today. To hell with the Super Bowl.