Q3 2025

Pat and Lee Herman

June '23, Schoenberg Wedding (Credit: Rachel Rosenstein)

With the air about to turn crisp, I am reminded of the millions of children who recently returned to school. I weep for them. 

Each year, during the first week of classes, I was always surprised to find that I hadn’t yet acquired the notebooks, pens, pencils, pencil cases, binders, highlighters, and sticky notes that I’d throw away in June, completely unused. So I’d make the annual trek to Staples — ah, the pre-Amazon days — and waste my parents’ money purchasing the dregs passed over by more prepared students. 

And summer reading? What summer reading? I was playing outside. I don’t recall any camp periods called “Ray Bradbury”. 

I never took much to academics, and they never took much to me. But I was excellent at Sparknotes. Even now, thinking about middle school Noah trying to digest Macbeth is laughable. (At 31, though, I’m nearly ready to give him another go.) 

Each fall, there I’d be sweating out a paper about a book I didn’t read. And by that, I mean watching the Phillies push forward in the playoffs, as I figured out which illness would strike me down on the date the paper was due. 

Starting in 6th grade, we students began studying foreign languages. Most of us, anyway. My teachers recommended that I enroll in a course entitled “Language Skills” (LS); I’d be taking English as my second language. 

But LS turned out to be one of the best classes I’ve ever taken. The wonderful Mrs. Fedder did something amazing: she showed us the 1954 classic film Rear Window as part of a Hitchcock segment. 

While my classmates conjugated verbs, I watched Grace Kelly and Jimmy Stewart. It was then that I knew I’d remain illiterate forever. So far, so good. 

It only took me another 15 years after seeing Rear Window to figure out I’d like to give this writing thing a go. Without Mrs. Fedder, it might have been 20. 

(In keeping with my goal of not recommending the most famous culture offerings, I am not officially recommending Rear Window in this newsletter. But if you haven’t seen it, put it near the top of your list).  

I suspect many of us had at least a couple of teachers whose quality and impact we still feel to this day. So, here’s to them and their capacity to deliver excellence for their new crop of students, year after year.

What follows are my comments on three topics: a worthy comedy special, a film recommendation, and a remembrance.

Neal Brennan, Crazy Good

Photo via Netflix

I am delighted to recommend Neal Brennan’s comedy special Crazy Good (2024). 

Neal is a director, writer, actor, and comedian based in LA who has worked in sketch comedy, feature films, documentaries, and who tours nationally as a standup. 

I admire Neal’s casual and conversational manner on stage, along with his meticulous joke writing. Though it’s the job of every comedian to deliver material about the everyday in unexpected ways, I find Neal’s standup particularly refreshing and watchable. 

Neal has been very open about his battle with depression; he began discussing mental health before it was popular to do so. But even, or maybe especially, on this topic, I find that Neal cuts through the faddishness with precision and hilarity. He’s a joy to watch on stage. 

(If you’re interested in additional mental health content from Neal, you can watch his 2017 Netflix special 3 Mics or listen to his Blocks podcast.)

Once an ardent atheist, Neal became a man of G-d thanks to some illuminating experiences with psychedelics. He doesn’t subscribe to a particular religion, and yet his journey into and experience of faith is honest and uplifting. 

Neal covers a lot of territory in Crazy Good: from elite athletes to Freud to the Ellen DeGeneres cancellation and monotheism. He handles all expertly from his unusual vantage point. 

Highest of recommends.

Cast, various

Photo via IMDB

The film Between the Lines (1977) tells the story of a small but scrappy Boston newspaper, the Back Bay Mainline, and its gang of disillusioned, formerly radical employees.

The delight of this film is its remarkable ensemble cast of soon-to-be stars just before, including: John Heard, a talented but increasingly cynical investigative reporter whose passion for journalism is waning; Lindsay Crouse, the newspaper's gifted and fiercely independent photographer, with whom Harry has a turbulent, on-again-off-again relationship; Jeff Goldblum, a flamboyant, smarmy, and financially strapped music critic who uses his column for personal gain and dating; Bruno Kirby, an eager-to-please cub reporter desperate to prove himself with a big story; Stephen Collins, a pretentious author who struggles to sell his book about the end of the 1960s, and his girlfriend, Gwen Welles, a reporter whose own career is flailing.

The Mainline punches, though far less than it used to, above its weight. And with the increasingly corporate consolidation of media in the late 70s, the Mainline is struggling financially. The action of Between the Lines is therefore driven by the looming threat of takeover by a suit-and-tie media conglomerate, an appalling prospect to the entire staff. 

The film oozes 70s nostalgia and longing for the 60s; the eventual, and inevitable, failures and unfilled promises had not yet come to pass. All of the characters must grapple with realities of their own maturation – ideological, romantic, vocational.

Director Joan Micklin Silver (who later made the delightful 1988 romantic comedy Crossing Delancey) brings her characteristic charm as she weaves together the personal and professional lives of her characters.

The energy, youth, and ragtag nature of the Mainline office make it a fun watch for early fall.

It's a film that may not appear in any “Best of” lists for the 1970s, but is well worth the hour-forty runtime.

Pat and Lee Herman

June '23, Schoenberg Wedding (Credit: Rachel Rosenstein)

Lee Herman, a dear friend, passed away on July 27th, 2025, surrounded by his loving family. He was 71. Lee is survived by his beloved wife of 40 years, Patricia; his sons, David and Jonathan; and his daughters-in-law, Amani and Catherine.

Pat (as she is known to us), David, and Jonathan each spoke at Lee’s funeral. Their eulogies were wonderful, each with their own style, showcasing different parts of Lee. Jonathan told a story about hearing Lee use profanity for the first time, which was funny, charming, and well-received.

As Jonathan concluded his remarks, he asked the mourners present to share their memories of Lee, so that the family could enjoy learning how others remember Lee. It is my honor to oblige that request now. 

I’ve known Lee and the Herman family for more than 20 years. Lee and Pat generously bestowed one of the seven blessings that are traditionally given at Jewish weddings unto my wife Colleen and I, on June 30th, 2023 (shown in photo at the top of this newsletter). The true blessing was getting to enjoy Lee’s friendship. When my grandmother, Yolanthe Schoenberg, passed away, Rabbi Lee presided over the funeral. 

The Schoenbergs used to attend Super Bowl parties at the Herman residence. We would leave in the 3rd quarter so my father could go to bed. (And that was Claude stretching himself.)

When my sisters and I were babies, the Hermans would host the Schoenbergs for shabbat dinner. Sort of. My father would eat, Lee would light the candles and recite the blessings, and my father would make my mother take her dinner to go as he packed us back in the car. A 25 minute operation.

I could be a mercurial eater in my younger days. During the years of Herman Super Bowls, I didn’t like mustard. And I mostly ate hot dogs. Lee was well aware of my peculiarities, so we would meet secretly, Lee sneaking me plate after plate of pigs in many blankets, along with a substantial bowl of ketchup. He knew I needed to be well fed by halftime, in case dad pulled the plug on my evening.

Lee was also an early supporter of my creative endeavors. When my first play, Lev of Leningrad, premiered at the Fulton Theatre in Lancaster, PA, Lee and Pat drove round trip in a day to see the show. Lee's attendance meant a great deal to me. It still does. That was Lee. 

I learned during David’s eulogy that Lee once drove to Chicago and back in the same day to attend a bar-mitzvah.

Lee referred to me as “Noahie”. Noahie misses you, Lee.

When Lee reads this he’ll probably say: “Noahie, I’m glad you finally like mustard”. 

If I’m lucky, I’ll host a Super Bowl party of my own someday. Perhaps I’ll even get to sneak a young guest some pigs in some blankets. 

And I’ll tell him about the great Lee Herman.

In his 1987 song Two Faces, Bruce Springsteen wonders where love goes.

In the case of Lee Herman, love goes straight to heaven.

If you’d like to send me comments or your own recommendations, please do so through my website.

If you need any blank notebooks, let me know.

I encourage you to forward this newsletter to anyone you think may be interested; they can sign up for NCQ via: subscribe.

This past week brought the Jewish holiday Rosh Hashanah, which celebrates our New Year. It’ll be the first year those who love Lee can’t wish him (directly) a shana tova for a sweet New Year.

But Lee would tell us to cherish the holidays with our loved ones and embrace the precious time we do have together. 

So that’s what I intend to do. I wish for you, the same.

Shana tova, my friends. 

I’ll see you in the winter.