Pixis: A retrospective

The greatest variety show ever made by a sixth-grader.

I always dreamed of being a media mogul.

When I was a kid, I got a cell phone that could (gasp!) record video. Thus began a long tradition of me forcing my younger brother to star in my made-up TV shows against his will.

There were multiple series, with episodes and semblances of plot. The dialogue was unintelligible over our laughter and random shrieking, and the camerawork was so shaky, it might as well have been an intense ‘90s music visualizer.

Yet I was convinced we were onto something. I even had a name for my fictitious media production company: Maxwell Video.

But my ambitions were limited by the fact that I wore too many hats. Actor. Cameraperson. Writer. Visionary. And having only one begrudging actor to help me wasn’t enough.

However, in sixth grade, my dreams came true. My uncle got divorced for the second time and came to live with us for a year. And now I had two begrudging actors to help me out.

This is where it begins.

I envisioned a variety show, more complex than anything I had thus far created. It would have skits: some silly, some meaningful, some informational. Some one-time, and some recurring.

I dreamed of making a show good enough that, if I put it on the TV, my family would watch it and enjoy it like any show. (I did not make a show good enough for this to happen.)

With increased complexity came increased production value. I started filming with my then-new iPad, and I used iMovie to combine the skits into one video per episode. I even added title cards. (Which always stayed on-screen way too long because I didn’t know how to use iMovie.)

I was a gay little kid and didn’t know it yet, so I always wanted to play the girl characters. In my mind, the easiest way to signal girlhood was long hair, so in prior shows, I had clipped printer paper to my head and draped it down over my ears. This looked stupid, so my mom, who is a lovely human being, made me a long wig out of yellow yarn just for this show. I still have it today:

Photo by my mom

So we had a cast. We had production equipment. We had a wardrobe. All that was left was a title. And I remember, on a summer visit to the neighborhood pool with my family, it hit me.

Pixis.

I knew instantly that would be the name of the show. Never mind that it doesn’t mean anything and isn’t a word.

(It’s pronounced “PICKS-iss,” in case you’re wondering.)

All the pieces had fallen into place.

The show itself had 7 episodes, totaling just over 21 minutes. My brother or I would introduce each episode, and then the mayhem would commence.

One recurring skit series on the show was, as my uncle christened it, “The Show Where We Interview People We Pretend Not to Know.” I tasked my uncle with interviewing my mom and my cousin about their lives. Despite his deadpan delivery, my uncle did not take his duties seriously, asking questions like:

“How long have you been…what you are?”

“What is your favorite part of being a circus clown?”

“How do you feel about death?”

I would often yell from behind the camera, saying things like, “Be serious for one question!” My uncle would respond by commenting on this unknown invisible voice that was commanding him (the “voice of God”).

To his credit, it’s not like my brother and I facilitated a serious interviewing atmosphere either. My brother sat on the floor between my uncle and his guests, and I tasked him with causing chaos. This included him laughing maniacally, pretending to bite the guests’ legs, and waving his arms like a car dealership inflatable.

Another recurring skit series was a sort of mini-sitcom. I cast my uncle and brother as roommates who were somehow the same age. My brother’s character worked at a restaurant called Vines. (This never factored into the plot at all. Not that there was a plot.)

In the first skit, my brother decided to hire my character, Georgia Banks (in her resplendent yellow wig), to surprise my uncle for his birthday. This was after I introduced myself:

“I am Georgia Banks! Party entertainer. Detective. And other things.”

I was already giggling as I delivered these lines. On the word “I,” my voice rose about fifteen octaves. After introducing myself, I launched into a very neurodiverse explanation of the pricing structure for my party planning services.

Things devolved in the next scene. I sang a nonsensical birthday song for my uncle (something about throwing a ball and not hitting a tall wall). My brother took this chance to cast doubt on my character’s gender identity (“How is he — how is she a girl?”), then began screaming and chasing me around the room. My mom panned the camera to my uncle, who announced, “Vanity project,” as we shrieked in the background.

In the second episode of this skit series, my uncle’s character and my brother’s character decided to adopt a stray cat. Then the camera panned down, and I’m not sure what I expected to see, but what I saw was me, wearing a cat ear headband, crawling around on all fours.

Another recurring skit in my vanity project was “Geography with Fruit,” in which Anna Banana, Laredo Tomato, and Chicago Avocado taught us (sort of) about their respective hometowns. I did remarkably little research into each city, culminating in this bold and conclusive statement from Chicago Avocado that both started and ended the skit:

“Chicago is a big city in Illinois.”

Yet another recurring skit involved my uncle delivering comedy routines, one of which was vaguely inappropriate and the other of which was lazy. What I find far more engaging are my brother’s performances as the opening act. Despite being forced to participate in Pixis, my brother has such a positive attitude in every episode. And here, he delivered his jokes in the slightly self-deprecating yet surprisingly suave way that only a 9-year-old can manage, with a winning smile, perfect comedic timing, and the occasional raised eyebrow at the camera. Here’s one of his one-liners:

“What cell service provides explosives?

A-TNT!”

There was one skit in the show that was so bad, I spent years being afraid to ever watch it again. Years. But when I rewatched it to write this post, I realized it may actually be the best part of the show. (Not to toot my own horn.)

It is an original song that I wrote and performed. (A cappella!) It is called “The Day.” Here are the lyrics. Trust that the melody is catchy.

“We wake up every day
But we don’t always play

We may have a smoothie
We may not have any

Now we go to where we’re employed
Or we may talk to Floyd

Now it’s time for lunch
We hope that it has crunch

Now it’s the afternoon
We may even hear a goon

We went to the music store
And heard some songs we adore

And now it’s time for bed
We may even go with Fred

And now we’re fast asleep
Let’s hope that we don’t weep”

Ten out of ten. No notes. Except that my use of “goon” was a malapropism. I think I combined “goose” and “loon” (the bird) in my head.

The show dropped precipitously in quality as the episodes went on. Partially this was because I ousted my uncle from the later episodes due to creative differences. (He never did what I asked! Even after I yelled at him on-camera in one episode.)

It’s interesting. My uncle was (and is) a contrarian. If he had his way, this show would have been emotionless except when it was grouchy. (If he had his way, the show wouldn’t have existed at all.)

But it’s not like I had the skill at 11 years old to bring my vision to life. My dreams of nuanced characters, meaningful interviews, and practical information (like the skit where my dad taught us how to make chicken tacos!) gave way to a reality of incoherent jokes, excessive commentary on my part, and a whole lot of my brother and me rolling around and crawling on the floor.

But every time my uncle didn’t do what I asked, every time we laughed through our lines or improvised, every time you could hear my mom giving stage directions from behind the camera…you got a glimpse of characters more nuanced than any we could have created. You got a glimpse of me and my family.

My uncle, who did me the kindness of participating.

My brother, who was a goofball, a smooth operator, and my right-hand man.

My mom and dad, who supported me in everything, and still do.

And me. I haven’t changed, you know. I am still proud of this terrible little show. Because when I was 11, my brain was full of facts and moments and memories and ideas. They didn’t go together. But I loved them all. So I created this show as a place to put them.

And now, my brain is still full of facts and moments and memories and ideas. They still don’t go together. And I still love them all. So I created this newsletter as a place to put them.

Pixis was my first attempt to do what I’m still doing today: making a space for my whole self. Making a space where anything goes.

Or should I say, anything glows.

I’ll see myself out.

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What kinds of chaos did you get up to as an 11-year-old? Did you force your family to star in a variety show that involved incessant laughter and you wearing a wig? Whatever antics you were up to, tell me about them in the comments below. And for more stories nothing like this, make sure to subscribe:

See you later.