I just watched the documentary Pee-wee Herman Himself and let me tell you, I didn’t expect to end it feeling misty-eyed while sitting next to a bowl of popcorn and existential nostalgia.

Here’s the thing: growing up, Pee-wee wasn’t just a goofy man-child in a too-tight gray suit and red bowtie. He was part of the wallpaper of childhood; bright, absurd, and always a little mischievous. He winked at us. Literally. Figuratively. Subversively. He was the grown-up who never quite conformed, and we loved him for it.

But this documentary? This was not just a trip down memory lane with a few kitschy bike bells along the way. This was Paul Reubens, the man behind the man-child,  finally sitting us down and saying, “Here’s the whole me. Not just the piece in the playhouse.”

It was surprisingly moving. Bittersweet, even. A layered goodbye from someone who, for most of his career, gave us just slivers of himself behind a meticulously constructed persona. It turns out Pee-wee wasn’t just a character.  He was a lifelong conceptual art piece. A Dadaist fever dream. A pop-culture wink to high art. That playhouse? It was performance art with snack breaks.

Watching him reflect and to control his final act, and to go out his way, felt profound. In a world of branding and algorithms, there was something deeply human about his quiet, slightly awkward vulnerability. It’s easy to forget that behind every hyper-controlled character is often someone wildly complex. Demanding. Guarded. But still longing to connect.

I’m struck by the idea that some of us, maybe many of us, are pieced together over a lifetime like Pee-wee’s world: colorful sets, talking furniture, layers of crafted personas.  And maybe only at the end do we get brave enough to show the blueprint behind it all.

Goodbye, Pee-wee. Thanks for the wink, the bike ride, the secret subversion, and for reminding us that even the silliest characters can carry the heaviest truths.

And yes, I still know the secret word. It’s “Goodbye.” And I’m yelling it in my head right now.