A Love Letter to Paul Reubens: The Man Behind the Red Bow Tie

Paul Rebuens HIMSELF

Dedicated to my childhood and the magic of Pee-wee Herman

I know you are, but what am I? A grown man weeping in his living room at 2 AM, that's what I am. Ha-ha! But this ain't no laughing matter, not really.

Tonight, something wicked this way came through my HBO Max queue, and boo, it slayed me harder than any vampire Buffy ever staked. "Pee-wee as Himself" – a documentary that should come with a warning label: CAUTION: May cause sudden onset of existential crisis and ugly crying.

The secret word tonight was REVELATION, and every time I heard it, I didn't scream – I sobbed.

Paul Reubens was a magician, but not the kind with rabbits and top hats. No, boo, this was darker magic – the kind that transforms pain into art, silence into subversion, and a closet into a stage. He conjured a character so pure, so joyfully absurd, that we forgot there was a man behind those red lips and that perfectly knotted bow tie. A queer man. A brilliant, aching, magnificent queer man who understood that sometimes you gotta hide your light under a bushel just to keep it burning.

And Lord, did that light burn bright.

You see, there's something unholy about what Hollywood does to people like us. They'll take your gifts, package them up real pretty, sell them to the masses, but God forbid you live your truth while doing it. In Paul's time – hell, even now in 2025 – they love our creativity but not our humanity. They want the art without the artist, the rainbow without acknowledging the storm.

But Paul was slick. Real slick. He took that children's show and turned it into a masterpiece of coded resistance. Pterri the Pterodactyl wasn't just a puppet – he was fierce, boo, fierce. Every character in that playhouse was a little piece of Paul's soul that couldn't live freely in the real world. Reba the Mail Lady, a Black woman delivering letters with genuine warmth and professionalism. Cowboy Curtis riding in with that Black cowboy swagger that TV had never seen before. The pure joy of difference celebrated instead of tolerated.

I know you are, but what am I? A revolutionary in red bow tie drag, that's what.

The documentary peeled back layers like an onion from hell's produce section, and each revelation cut deeper. The control issues – boo, I felt that in my bones. That need to orchestrate every detail because when the world feels chaotic and hostile, sometimes the only power you have is over your art. The perfectionism born from knowing that one mistake, one slip of the mask, could destroy everything you've built.

And that witch hunt? Sweet Jesus, that witch hunt.

They came for him like he was some kind of monster, not a grown man doing what grown men do in a place designed for grown men to do it. The moral panic, the pearl-clutching, the systematic destruction of a career over something so human, so ordinary, so nothing. It was a crucifixion in slow motion, and we all watched.

But here's the thing about Paul Reubens that separates him from every other fallen star in Hollywood's graveyard of broken dreams: he kept coming back. Knocked down seven times, got up eight. That's not just resilience – that's divine stubbornness. That's the universe saying, "Not today, Satan. This one's mine."

The loneliness, though. That's what broke me. Sitting in those Hollywood hills, surrounded by all that glittering emptiness, carrying the weight of a secret that wasn't even shameful except in the eyes of a world too small to contain his truth. How many nights did he stare at those city lights and wonder if it was worth it? How many times did he practice that Pee-wee laugh while his heart was breaking?

I hope – God, I hope – that in his final moments, Paul knew what he'd accomplished. Not just the comedy, not just the characters, but the quiet revolution he staged in living rooms across America. Every weird kid who felt less alone watching his show. Every parent who learned it was okay to be different. Every closeted soul who saw the possibility of creating something beautiful even while hiding.

The documentary makers knew exactly what they were doing when they titled it "Pee-wee as Himself." Because Paul Reubens was always himself – just fragmented, scattered across a dozen characters, each one carrying a piece of his truth that the world wasn't ready to see whole.

Rest in power, Paul. Rest in the knowledge that you took a world determined to diminish you and instead expanded it. You made the playhouse bigger from the inside, like some kind of queer TARDIS of joy.

And to anyone reading this with that documentary sitting unwatched in their queue – boo, clear your schedule and prepare your tissues. This one's gonna hurt so good. It's gonna remind you why art matters, why representation matters, why the fight for authentic existence never ends.

Paul Reubens wasn't just a master of the improv and comedy. He was a warrior in greasepaint, fighting battles we're still fighting today. And boo, from where I'm sitting, eyes swollen from crying, heart cracked wide open – he won.

The secret word was always LOVE. And every time we say his name, we should scream.

I know you are, but what am I? Forever grateful for the lesson in surviving while queer, while different, while brilliant in a world that tries to dim your light. Thank you, Paul. The playhouse will never be the same.