I have to perform stand up in the park because of the pandemic. Here are the 10 bizarre lessons I've learned

Comedians have taken the art form from dark venues to bright public spaces because of the pandemic. What I've seen is beyond anything I ever imagined

Zach Zimmerman performing stand up in the park (JT Anderson)

An old theatre director once told me you need three things for a comedy show: a dimly lit room, everyone sitting a bit too close together, and alcohol. Outdoor comedy shows in the park check zero items off this list.

With comedy clubs closed during the coronavirus pandemic, New York City comics, thanks to Stand Up NY, are taking the art form from dark clubs to bright public parks. In The Death and Life of Great American Cities, a book I’ve mentioned more times than pages I’ve read, Jane Jacobs argues that this is what makes parks special: people tossing frisbees, flipping burgers, and as of late yelling self-deprecating jokes. With almost 20 outdoor park shows under my belt, I have some lessons to share from the battlefield.

1. You’ve got to yell. Without microphones, comics can only be heard by those in earshot, which is probably the amount of influence a comedian should have. I’ve mined my oeuvre - a series of Google Docs I created of past material called “Bits” “Stand-Up 2,” and “Other Stand-Up” - for louder and more theatrical material.

2. Dark stuff just doesn’t work. Audiences are craving light, and I can’t imagine why.

3. Crowd work doesn’t work, either. “Anybody here from out of town? … Why? Go home!” Crowds seem to want to escape in your moment, not report on theirs. It’s like Joan Rivers paraphrasing Winston Churchill. She said: “Every laugh is a small vacation for someone.”

4. Be mentally prepared for speedos. Usually a comedy club audience might have, at worst, a graphic T-shirt with personality. Central Park’s Sheep’s Meadow is so full of so many very hot people in speedos. I thought we had all silently agreed to relax our fitness regimes during the pandemic. My tight five can’t compete with your six pack.

5. Beware of babies. Quick poll: would you rather hear a joke about me being tall and ruining your view at concerts, or witness a child’s joy? Would you rather hear how living in a studio means there’s no breakfast in bed just breakfast by bed, or watch a toddler roll a ball across a pastoral landscape? There’s no quick-witted comeback to the idyllic.

(Getty Images/iStockphoto (Getty Images/iStockphoto)

6. Dogs are devils sent from the Dark Lord himself. Don’t get me wrong, I love dogs. I hope to one day have the confidence of a pitbull I watched take a dump on the middle of a sidewalk in Edinburgh. But they make for challenging hecklers. Up and coming comics are no strangers to barking, but dogs are too cute and too loud. When a dog runs on stage in a play, they steal the scene.

7. Wear sunscreen and mosquito repellant. It’s hard to laugh when you’re in physical pain.

8. Be ready for the post-show “thank yous”. After a show in July, the comics were catching up by a tree. We tend to hang out a bit longer after shows now since we’re not racing to other shows or chasing opportunities. A couple from the audience came over. I knew one of them was a Broadway prop designer who’d been out of work since the pandemic started, something I learned from crowd-work before I learned my lesson about crowdwork. “Thank you so much,” they said. They glanced to their partner: “We really needed that.” People will never need comedy the way they need food, housing, healthcare, education, and fulfillment, but maybe the escape of a laugh belongs somewhere on Mazlov’s little triangle.

9. Hang out after. In the past, after my set, I’d leave or head home; now, I linger. We check in. Maybe we have nowhere to be. Maybe we haven’t spoken to other humans in months. Maybe we’re no longer competition in an industry that’s been gutted. Whatever it is, I’ve shared more subway rides with comics in the past month than I have in the past year. “I’m not really doing stand-up right now,” a friend told me when I asked if she wanted to do a park show. “Is that crazy?” It’s not. To still be doing stand-up, for babies and dogs, is a bit mad. And maybe it’s what’s forging a sense of camaraderie among the comics.

10. Use the bathroom beforehand. There’s usually nowhere to go and you can’t be relieving yourself in the park like a dog.

Comics, I’ll see you in the green room (by a tree). Audiences, thank you for taking small vacations with us in the park that would make Jane and Joan smile. A comedy show only takes three things, after all: comics, audiences, and is that baby really kissing that dog right now?

Zach Zimmerman is a comedian and writer in Brooklyn.