Get To Know A Comic You Probably Don't Know: David Walton

Who? The entertainment industry makes no sense. It is capricious mix of talent, looks and most importantly, luck. Here is an example. There were two excellent comic actors in my college senior class. Both were charismatic, hard-working and good-looking dudes. They arranged a performance of Mamet's Glengarry Glen Ross in which the cast would only get the script about three hours before the show. These two guys pulled it off, seamlessly improvising in scenes where dialogue had strayed. After graduation, both moved to New York to pursue entertainment full-time. If you could bet on people like the stock market, I'd have bought in at the ground floor for both of these guys. Dave has carved out a lucrative career as a comic actor. He's a hot name every pilot season. 99 percent of actors would trade careers for his in a blink.

That other guy? His name was John Krasinski.

From where would you recognize David Walton?
He played Vance on NBC's now cancelled Perfect Couples. He played Danny in NBC's now cancelled Heist. Et cetera.

Where can I see more? David is in a new NBC show, Bent with Amanda Peet and Jeffrey Tambor. You can see clips here.

David's attempt at writing something sporty for Deadspin:

Wednesday night at 10 p.m. Kiss the wife hard before I go because she's not going to be awake when this warrior gets back. It's a twenty minute drive to the Toyota Sports Center in El Segundo, CA. The DPR (Deep Roy Paradox) have a 10:45 pm game against The Wine Doctors. The Wine Doctors are a tough draw. Not only are the Wine Doctors really fucking good but they've got their names sewn into the back of their jerseys. Their wine names that is. Grigio is a good defenseman, Cabernet is heckuva forward, but Riesling is a fucking weapon. The guy was born to play hockey. His ass is huge, he probably had a beard when he was 15 and his wrists are as thick as my leg. They help him fire snap shots that scare Scotty Macarthur, DRP's goalie who just painted a goddam serpent on his helmet, just for the fuck of it. Speaking of Scotty, he's probably eating fries from Carl's Jr right now. It's been his pre-game ritual since a miracle shutout he had 8 years ago.

My music for pre-game pump-up is Guns N' Roses's Appetite For Destruction. That album turned 24 years old last month. Though if that album was a person, it never would have lived to 24. I get a nice flashback serotonin dump as "Out Ta Get Me" shakes my side view mirrors. I'm a little more nervous for the game than usual because I've had 4 beers at dinner and if two full lines (10 people) don't show up, I may puke on the ice. Just 60 seconds of hard skating, stopping and starting, battling in the corners, and back checking will make a man in decent shape have to go diarrhea. I am not a man in decent shape. Hockey is fucking tiring.

I pull into the parking lot with 15 minutes to spare and walk up the steps into the rink, into the 3 rinks i should say. Well, two rinks and one roller hockey rink which they're tearing down now so that they can get a third ice surface. Good riddance. Roller hockey is a fucking joke. And this place is where the LA Kings practice. It's a posh facility. Hockey on roller skates is like MMA in a bounce house: the elements are there but the medium makes the whole thing ridiculous.

The locker room smells the same as every hockey locker room in the world. So bad it's good. Four guys are gearing up. One is taking a swig of Jack Daniels which gives him a bit of courage before the game. I ask for swig and he hurls the bottle across the locker room. He must have also been listening to G'N'R on the 405. I retrieve the luckily still intact bottle and a little nip takes out the fire but leaves in the warmth.

Our goalie is strapping up his gear. I look at Scotty's new serpent helmet. It basically looks like a drunk alligator but i tell him it looks great. You gotta keep your goalie feeling good. That position is a royal head fuck. You can be seeing everything out there and playing lights out, and then wham something shifts in the air, you lose a tiny bit of focus and all of a sudden you can't see the puck and everything is ringing the bell. Flyers fans re-learn this lesson every spring.

We skate out on the ice for warm-ups and the Wine Doctors might as well have CCCP on the front of their jerseys. They are doing 3 on 2 drills, firing cannons, and laughing. They look cocky. And they should be. We are going to get killed.

Puck drops. I'm playing right D and I get the face-off and fire the puck at the refs head when i dump in. Aside from Greg Oden, he's the biggest prick in America and loves calling penalties on us because he is a sociopath.

Syrah scores the first goal. I have to be honest. Putting varietals on your jersey is a real pussy move, but the Wine Doctors are tough and fucking good. They're so badass they can do really soft things and still be badass, like Steve McQueen on skates. I think that is the highest level of vikingdom. When you can name your team after different wines and still not got made fun of. Actually come to think of it, our captain chose purple socks for our team. We look like total pussies. And we are getting our ass beat. Fuck. The scorekeeper stops putting goals on the board. I look in our keeper Scotty's eyes and he's not there. He's been replaced by a 4 year old kid who has lost his parents at the fair wearing a serpent helmet.

3rd period finally comes and we are losing by double digits. That's when Cush our best defenseman and tough guy starts getting chippy with sauvignon blanc. For a white wine this guy actually has some real body and even though I'm so tired I'm losing my eye site, I see them start rolling around on the ice trying to punch each other in the helmet. The prick ref breaks it up and I watch him actually punch Cush. Everyone is threatening everyone. Fights in the parking lot are promised and Cush is the only one kicked out.

The final score is 17-2. I can barely keep my eyes open and I can't feel my legs. The locker room is quiet as everyone takes in what just happened. Someone screams, "Goddamit, we could have won that game." Everyone laughs. There is a 30-pack on ice in the center of the locker room. Six each. We sit in the locker room for an hour. Three beers in an empty and dehydrated body and you've got yourself a good buzz. We laugh about how much we sucked, about how fucking fun hockey is even if you lose. Cush tells a story about how one guy in the ‘90s finished a NHL playoff game with a broken femur. A broken fucking femur!

It's 1 a.m.—time to go home. As a general rule, five hours after a game, you're too amped up to sleep. But I played all 60 minutes. Maybe I can fall asleep sooner. I shower and slide in bed next to my sleeping wife though I still smell like a dead rat. I feel bad about my stink but my wife says she likes it. Let's be honest here. LA turns you into a pussy. I'm the first one to admit it, I'm a fucking pussy. But one night a week, I play hockey. I work my ass off, I get bruised up, I protect my teammates and I battle. One night a week I'm not a 32-year-old pussy whose back is nagging him. I'm a warrior. My wife likes the hockey smell because it's the smell of a warrior. And warriors get to politely wake up their sleeping wife and ask for sex, right? You're goddamn right they do!

If you don't know how to play hockey, learn. If you quit, get back out there. If you want to play and aren't sure where to start. Call up the Toyota Sports Center and join a men's league. I'm sure The Wine Doctors are looking for a "Malbec." Hockey is the fucking best!