A Loner, A Rebel

My Tribute to Paul Reubens

Paul Reubens meant a lot to me. Not just as Pee-wee Herman, but as a creative force who shaped how I saw the world—especially during those formative years when my friends and I were experimenting with cannabis, cracking open our senses of humor, and absorbing the weird brilliance of shows like Pee-wee’s Playhouse and Ren & Stimpy. Pee-wee wasn’t just a character; he was a portal. That playhouse was a psychedelic sanctuary, a place where absurdity met sincerity, and where being strange was celebrated, not punished.

I remember how Pee-wee’s Playhouse felt like more than just a Saturday morning show. It was nuanced, informative, and weirdly wholesome. It taught kindness, curiosity, and creativity without ever talking down to us. It was inclusive in ways I didn’t even have the language for at the time—gender-fluid characters, diverse cast, and a celebration of difference that felt radical. Pee-wee’s world was anarchic in the best way: chaotic, colorful, and full of joy. It made me feel like being weird was okay. More than okay—it was powerful.

When Paul Reubens got arrested in that adult theater, I remember thinking how absurd the backlash was. He got caught “rubbing one out” in a place where, frankly, that behavior was expected. It felt like a setup, a sting designed to shame him. And the media went wild. “Kids show star caught with his pants down.” They dropped his merchandise, canceled the show, and tried to erase him. But to me—and so many others—that moment didn’t diminish who he was. It didn’t make Pee-wee’s Playhouse any less brilliant, or Big Adventure any less iconic. If anything, it made me more protective of him. More aware of how society punishes joy and eccentricity when it doesn’t fit the mold.

Paul Reubens was born in Peekskill, New York, and grew up in Sarasota, Florida, surrounded by circus families. That theatricality seeped into his bones. He joined the Asolo Theater at 11 and never stopped performing. After a brief stint at Boston University, he moved to Hollywood, joined The Groundlings, and created Pee-wee Herman—a character inspired by a kid he knew at summer camp and a role he played as a child. Pee-wee was a satire of 1950s Americana, a man-child with pink cheeks, a clipped bow tie, and a voice that was equal parts innocence and mischief.

I loved how Pee-wee could be both wholesome and subversive. He was a loner, a rebel. He didn’t fit into any box. And neither did Paul. After Pee-wee’s Big Adventure, CBS gave him full creative control over Playhouse, and he ran with it. The show was a kaleidoscope of puppets, animation, and moral lessons. He never appeared as himself during its run, maintaining the illusion with religious devotion. That kind of commitment to character was rare—and beautiful.

After the scandal, Paul pivoted. He took on darker, more offbeat roles—The Penguin’s father in Batman Returns, a vampire in Buffy, voice work in The Nightmare Before Christmas. He showed up in Murphy Brown, Matilda, Mystery Men, and Blow. He had range. He had depth. And he never stopped being interesting.

In 2016, when Pee-wee’s Big Holiday dropped on Netflix, I felt like I was reconnecting with an old friend. It was a love letter to the character and to the fans who never stopped believing. And I was one of them.

Paul Reubens passed away in 2023 after a private battle with cancer. In his final years, he wrestled with how to separate himself from Pee-wee, how to reclaim his story, and how to come out as gay—a truth he’d buried for decades. The HBO documentary Pee-wee as Himself explores that tension with grace, and it hit me hard. Because I know what it’s like to feel like you have to hide parts of yourself to survive.

We lost one of the greatest character actors of our time. And yeah, we shamed his kink. But we also loved him. I loved him. I loved Pee-wee’s laugh, his bike, his playhouse, his big adventure. I loved the way he made me feel—seen, silly, and safe. Paul Reubens was a loner, a rebel. And he gave me permission to be the same.