I know you are, but what am I?
Another icon dead and gone.
And gonna happen even more as I get older.
Pee Wee Herman.
These things come in threes, and though I don’t have to hold any sort of breath to wait, I know another is coming.
The weird way about this news being delivered was via headline.
I was standing in a graveyard talking to a rock.
Or if it’s marble, is it a sculpture?
A marker? A stone?
Either way, I was visiting a couple of ghosts after a tour of Pine Bluff, giving them updates and keeping them up to speed.
My phone gave a little buzz in my pocket, so I pulled it out to check.
Not to be rude to Mamaw and Papaw, but they’ve really got nothing but patience now.
The headline read: Paul Rueben, Pee Wee Herman, dead at…
There’s something sort of appropriate about getting the notice while standing among the headstones.
It made me sad though.
His big adventures was funny.
His fall from grace funnier still.
For a nation of people who got here from the beast with two backs mattress dancing, we are a bit prudish when it comes to self loving.
Especially in public.
Not that I can blame anyone.
Anytime I see a couple slobber snogging in public like they need to get a room, I get a little bit of the heebie jeebies.
And that’s knowing that the wang bang is my only addiction, if I am addicted to anything.
Maybe addicted to big ideas and big plans and big ambitions.
Derailed sometimes by the chase of that sweet other addiction, but ever present none the less.
What I shared with the grands was the status of their home.
Or the burnt remains therein.