I’ve said it once, I’ll say it ad infinitum: nothing’s better than a house show. It may not be comedy as the ancestors of entertainment intended, (with schtick, glamour, or hocking), nor is it what modern sensibilities subscribes comedy to be (clubs, theaters, television, two drink minimums), but I’ve never had more fun than at a comedy house party.
The way that Sam Tallent refers to it is that standup comedy is like the fourth wave of American punk rock. That made me excited to go out and try to build a documentary series across the United States that showed and reflected the subculture and throw these house parties and film them in a way that wasn’t intrusive and didn’t contaminate what naturally happens there.
— Splitsider’s “Inside the Raucous Standup Parties of ‘Flophouse’ with Lance Bangs”
It’s an energy thing, a camaraderie, a happening. I can’t get shit-faced and dance at a regular comedy show. But at a house show, the social vibrance overtakes the rules and statuses that usually mars my interaction with comedians I respect. Lived in, grody, degradation equalizes everything, and, from there, becomes boundless in potential. New friends, fresh fandoms, weirder sets, longer nights.
This was all I was about a few years ago. Between 2011-2013, I lived in Sylvan House, my bed in the former dining room, next to the kitchen. I was broke, rent was cheap, worked remotely making educational materials for students with disabilities, making my own hours and clocking out early to do comedy across the Bay, basically crashing every night, sometimes performing in LA and Humboldt, offering up my room when I was gone. I quickly became the den mother of the group, waking up to burnt popcorn on the stove or vomit on the bathroom ceiling, using my cleanliness—forged by a strict upbringing—to bring Sylvan House to some sort of civility. The ebb and flow of chaos and absolution became an integral part of my life, as I, felt integral to all the partying and creativity oozing through the house. Then I moved out to become a real adult, though, I still kept a key.
The real trip is last summer when I returned to Sylvan House for the FLOPHOUSE shoot, AND ALL THESE PEOPLE WERE THERE! Noise ordinances and lights, and cameras on jibs, and kegs in Holmgren’s room. A real production. I quickly lost myself in the excitement, lost to my crossfaded amnesia until I see the show. This trailer (and probably the series’ subsequent premiere) feels like a culmination because when I see myself, all my friends and all my haunts, our jubilation and filth, our music and our story, I get fucking pumped for home.