"If you don't laugh, you don't live"
Neil Friedenberg
You Just Can't Make This Up!
Fight or Flight
The Wrong House That Got It All Right
Furry Party Crasher
When I was 18, I went out for a jog in the rain. The light drizzle turned to a heavier rain. A typical 50-degree winter.
I had just finished a workout at Pac West/Bally’s Fitness Club in Federal Way, Washington, and figured I would end the workout with a jog along 320th Street.
I’m cruising along 320th Street, right near where Group Health used to be minding my business, feeling strong, soaked, and invincible, when I approach an intersection. An older woman is stopped in her car, looking left… very carefully looking left… making sure it’s clear to turn right.
What she’s not doing is looking straight ahead where I exist.
Suddenly, she accelerates.
Directly into me.
Now here’s where instinct kicks in. I didn’t freeze. I didn't scream. Honestly, I didn’t even think. I launch myself straight up, throw my left arm out, and for a brief moment I become the human version of the Heisman Trophy.
Thank God it was raining because I didn’t get hit so much as I hydroplaned across the hood of her car from the front right side to the left. Once across the hood, I hopped off, landed on my feet… and just kept jogging. Yep, just kept going.
Didn’t stop. Didn’t turn around. Didn’t make eye contact. Just jogged on like,
“Yep. Just another day."
About ten seconds later while still running, it hit me.
"Did I just get hit by a car?"
I started laughing out loud. I finished my jog and went home.
That was the exact moment I learned two things:
Fight or flight is VERY real.
My body just reacted to the situation.
To this day, I’m not sure if that woman knows she hit me or is even alive anymore, but I know that somewhere in Federal Way, there may be a woman who tells a story about hitting a jogger who slid across her hood and disappeared into the rain.
Furry Party Crasher
The Wrong House That Got It All Right
Furry Party Crasher
Our trip to Colorado was supposed to be the perfect blend of adventure and relaxation. My wife and I traveled with my brother-in-law and sister-in-law, and we did everything you’re supposed to do when you’re in Colorado: hiking, soaking in the views at Garden of the Gods, and responsibly “hydrating” at some excellent breweries and pubs.
One day, I even made a stop at a local Prolite distributor in Arvada. It was fantastic. New pickleball courts, friendly people, good vibes all around. I left feeling energized, inspired, and—this is important—completely unaware I forgot my backpack.
You know, the backpack with my laptop in it.
I headed back to Colorado Springs, and that’s when the slow, stomach-sinking realization hit me. No backpack. No laptop. Just regret.
I called Ken—the absolute legend who had hosted me earlier—and asked if he could meet me at our Denver hotel that night before our early flight home. Without hesitation, he agreed. Crisis averted. Or so I thought.
A few nights later, we walked into the hotel lobby and spotted Ken sitting with his wife. He looked up, smiled, and said casually:
“Hey Neil. Got your backpack. By the way… I think there’s some sort of costume party here tonight. Never seen anything like it.”
I nodded politely, still focused on my backpack. And then I looked around.
The lobby was absolute chaos.
There were people everywhere—in full animal costumes. Tails. Paws. Heads the size of beach balls. A fox was checking in. A cat sipping a cocktail. Furries were everywhere.
I had no idea what furries even were at the time. I just knew I had accidentally walked into the middle of something that felt like a mix of nightclub, Halloween, and just something kind of odd and slimy.
I started laughing. Hard. One of those laughs where you’re not even sure you’re breathing correctly. How is anyone ever going to believe this?
Answer: they won’t—unless there’s photographic evidence.
And that’s when I saw him.
Waddling/strutting through the lobby like royalty. I can only assume he was the leader of the entire operation. In my mind, at least.
Disco Duck.
He had presence. Confidence. A flashy gold butterfuly collared shirt and an afro. If anyone was running this show, it was Disco Duck.
Naturally, I took a photo.
The next morning, as we boarded our flight home, we were still laughing. A normal trip. A forgotten backpack. A backpack saving Ken. And a hotel lobby full of furries I never expected to see in my lifetime.
Colorado, you are beautiful, unpredictable, and apparently home to the most unforgettable hotel stay I’ve ever had.
Thank you Colorado!
The Wrong House That Got It All Right
The Wrong House That Got It All Right
I met my future wife the way all great love stories begin after bar close, slightly lost, and absolutely convinced I knew where I was going.
It was Eau Claire, Wisconsin and one of those nights where the bars shut down but your confidence stays active way too late. I was walking back with my buddy Tim, who was in town visiting from Minneapolis. The plan was simple: stumble back to a friend’s house, crash on a couch, and call it a successful evening.
Naturally, we messed it up immediately.
We thought we were on Chippewa Street. We were not. We were on Niagara Street. Close enough to sound right, far enough to change the course of my life.
Now, it’s important to understand where I was at that point in my life. I truly did not believe in relationships. Not in a dramatic “love is fake” kind of way, but more in a “this is not for me and I’m doing just fine avoiding it” way. I was making some poor choices, mastering the art of pushing good people away, and making sure no one ever got too close to me emotionally. Which made what happened next even more ridiculous.
We decided to knock on the door anyway. Maybe our friends still lived there. Maybe they moved. You never know at bar close.
The door opened.
Standing there was this girl wearing a pink Boston Red Sox hat, cocked slightly to the side like a little gangster who clearly ran Niagara Street.
Tim, ever the confident player, asked,
“Uh… is this Chippewa Street?”
She smiled and said,
“Oh no, this is Niagara. You’re off by one street.”
Tim didn’t miss a beat. He turned to me and said,
“Neil, let’s go. Wrong house.”
And under normal circumstances, especially considering my anti-relationship phase that should have been the end of the story. I was very good at walking away. It was kind of my thing.
But I took one more look at the girl in the pink Red Sox hat. Carrie. I didn’t know her name yet, but I knew enough. Something about her stopped all the internal noise, all the defenses I had built up so carefully.
Tim was already halfway down the steps when I calmly, confidently, and with zero explanation said the most out-of-character sentence of my life:
“I think I’m going to stay.”
Tim left. History didn’t.
What began as a wrong turn after last call turned into the right door, the right street, and the one person I didn’t see coming, at a time when I wasn’t looking for anyone at all.
Proof that sometimes being off by one street isn’t a mistake. It’s the answer wearing a pink Red Sox hat and answering the door at exactly the right time.
And that’s how I met my future wife.
At the wrong house.
On the wrong street.
While doing everything I could to avoid exactly that.
Nailed Neil - A 5th Grade Legend
Nailed Neil - A 5th Grade Legend
In fifth grade (1988), while most kids at the Twin Lakes Elementary Halloween Dance showed up as predictable ghosts, vampires, Michael Jackson, and whatever was popular at the mall that year, I made a different choice. A somewhat questionable choice.
I went as the Garbage Pail Kid Nailed Neil.
Yep. The disgusting version of Cabbage Patch Kids that were for the kids that enjoyed poor, sick, sometimes even morbid humor. Just seemed to resonate with me.
My costume featured actual golf tees sticking out of me to represent nails. I had gauze wrapped around my head, because nothing says “elementary school dance” like a head injury. The look was confusing, slightly alarming, and most importantly, completely original.
The mastermind behind this masterpiece? My sister Julie. She’s an artist, and she fully committed to the bit. She loved it. I loved it. The teachers… well, they tolerated it. But at that dance, I was absolutely the most original kid in the room, and I knew it.
That night was one of the first times I realized something important about myself:
I was a little different. And my sense of humor was odd. Not everyone got it, but that was kind of the point.
Fast forward to today and not much has changed. I still believe normal is boring. Whether it’s personalities, pickleball paddles, playing styles, or people in general. Differentiation should be embraced. Diversity is what makes things interesting. It’s the spice of life. It’s what keeps games fun, conversations memorable, and communities strong.
I preach this to my kids now. Be yourself. Be weird if that’s your version of normal. Show up as Nailed Neil when everyone else is a sheet ghost.
Because fitting in is EASY.
Standing out? That’s where the real fun begins.
Mumbai to Jaipur to Toilet
Nailed Neil - A 5th Grade Legend
I Was Attacked by a Squirrel
My trip to India began in Mumbai, a city that doesn’t just move fast, it breathes fast. The people were friendly, welcoming, and endlessly kind, but nothing could have prepared me for the sheer overpopulation and organized chaos. Cars swerved inches from pedestrians who seemed completely unfazed...and walking too close to the road anyways. Cows, dogs, macaques, and goats casually roamed the streets like they had right-of-way. The culture was rich, vibrant, loud, and a bit overwhelming. So many people!
Then came the flight to Jaipur.
Somewhere between Mumbai and the Pink City, I realized something was very wrong. I was overheated. Sweaty. Not the “it’s hot outside” sweat, but the uh-oh sweat. But I powered through, checked into the hotel, and tried to convince myself everything was fine.
It wasn’t.
Gurgle.
Gurgle.
Oh no.
Uhhh, my lower half had no control of itself.
I missed a fantastic night out with new friends in Jaipur because instead, I made a deep emotional commitment to the hotel bathroom. Delhi Belly, ladies and gentlemen, is real and it does not care how confident you are or how careful you’ve been. I had proudly avoided it the entire trip only for it to strike at the finish line of the trip. Even while begging my internal organs to stop it, I couldn’t help but laugh. The trip was eye-opening, unforgettable, and absolutely worth it.
India, you humbled me.
And then you kicked my ass.
I Was Attacked by a Squirrel
Nailed Neil - A 5th Grade Legend
I Was Attacked by a Squirrel
Ok. Ok. Yep. I was attacked by a squirrel.
Like physically assaulted!
This wasn’t just any squirrel either. This was a small, cute, furry… ferocious, possibly rabid, out-of-its-mind squirrel. The kind of squirrel that has seen things. The kind that’s done time for felony theft.
The scene of the crime: Green River Community College in Auburn, Washington. The time: between classes. My mistake: needing sugar.
I was outside the lobby with some classmates, doing what college students do best—eating garbage and wasting time. Specifically, Red Vines. Nature’s red candy.
That’s when I noticed him.
The squirrel.
He wasn’t just nearby. He was watching me. Casing me out. Doing his homework. This was clearly a city squirrel. One of those campus rodents raised on Doritos and Funyuns. Used to college kids eating the garbage snacks and just handing them over.
He approached. Slowly. Confidently. He sat up and looked at me. He begged.
“Nope,” I thought in my head.
That’s when it all turned south.
Without warning, this tiny P.O.S. crawled up my leg.
I reacted like a normal human being would. I kicked it off.
Bad move.
Because that squirrel came back with bad intentions.
In one fluid motion, it launched itself up my entire body and ran up to my chest. I was now eye-to-eye with pure rage. No fear. No mercy. Just a squirrel who had decided Red Vines were worth dying for.
Time truly slowed down. At least it felt like it did.
My classmates? Completely useless. Watching, Laughing. The squirrel? Locked in.
This thing was NOT taking no for an answer.
Finally, in a moment of desperation, I ripped off a piece of Red Vine, threw it like a peace offering, and flung the damn squirrel off of me.
The squirrel took the licorice and disappeared, victorious.
Laughter followed.
What the hell just happened?
That moment changed me. I have never looked at squirrels the same since. I don’t see the cute, furry animals. I see opportunistic rodents that crave sugar and confrontation.
So what’s the point of this story?
Simple.
Don’t trust squirrels. They’re still rodents. And some of them are absolutely nuts. Hit me Smitty!
More Random Occurences
The Mute Witnessed the Car Accident
Life lessons present themselves when you are not expecting it. This one arrived in a dented 1986 Buick Century in the back parking lot of a coffee shop in Eau Claire, Wisconsin.
I was a young, naive college kid at the time, proudly driving my crappy sky blue Buick Century (my 2nd one at the time. I had a total of 3, count them 3, 1986 Buick Centurys). And when I say crappy, I say it with love. That car had character. It had survived winters, questionable decisions, and many attempts at cranking the bass to some mid 90's hip hop. I loved that thing.
One morning, I parked behind a coffee shop on Water Street, went in for my usual mocha. I walked out with an extra bounce to my step and hopped back into the Buick, backed up, and started pulling forward when my entire body froze.
Another car was backing straight into me.
I honked.
Nothing.
I honked again.
Still nothing.
There was nowhere to go. I stopped completely. And then... bam.
The other driver hit me.
Out jumps the woman, two toddlers still strapped into the back seat, and she immediately goes full Volume.
“WHY DID YOU KEEP GOING?!”
“I honked!” I said, pointing at my steering wheel like it was some sort of hard evidence.
She continued yelling how this was entirely my fault. At this point, I decided this needed to be settled a different way and called the police to file a report.
While waiting, I glanced over at the coffee shop window and noticed a small crowd inside watching the scene. Perfect. Witnesses.
I went inside and asked, “Did anyone see what happened?”
A taller guy spoke up and said, “No, but my friend did.”
She stepped forward.
I was still riding an adrenaline wave and probably came in a little hot.
“What did you see?!” I asked.
Her friend calmly looked at me and said, “She can write it down. She doesn’t speak.”
I blinked.
“She’s a mute.”
A…what?
My brain absolutely short circuited.
Now let me be very clear. I am not making fun of her. I wasn’t then, and I’m definitely not now. I genuinely had no idea what that meant at the time. It felt like the universe had just dropped a massive curveball directly on my head.
Here I was, parking lot chaos, cops on the way, adrenaline pumping, and suddenly I’m learning that mute can be an actual person?
She calmly wrote down exactly what she saw. Her account was clear, accurate, and thankfully it confirmed that I had stopped and honked. Case closed.
The woman yelling? Still yelling at the officers now.
The toddlers? Still in the back seat.
Me? Standing there realizing that life has a very strange sense of timing.
Nothing about that day went the way I expected. I went in for a mocha and walked out with a dented Buick, a police report, and a crash course in humility, patience, and understanding.
And honestly? That’s the part that still makes me laugh.
Not at the people.
Not at the situation itself.
But at the absolute irony of how weird, unpredictable, and educational life can be.
A Mute...