Plausibly Live! - The Official Podcast Of The Dave Bowman Show

On June 8, 1967, in the sunlit waters of the eastern Mediterranean, an American ship flew the Stars and Stripes over calm seas. Her name was the USS Liberty, a lightly armed intelligence vessel serving under the National Security Agency. She carried 294 crew members, including sailors, Marines, and NSA linguists trained in Arabic and Russian. That morning, the Liberty cruised peacefully, 13 miles off the Sinai Peninsula, well within international waters. Overhead, Israeli reconnaissance planes circled the ship multiple times. The Liberty’s crew waved. Some even saw the pilots’ faces. At least eight overflights occurred in the hours before the attack. No warnings were given. Nothing seemed out of place. Then everything changed.

It was June 7, 1776, a heavy summer day in Philadelphia. The streets simmered with tension, and inside the State House, the Second Continental Congress sat on the edge of history. The men in that room had argued, pleaded, and petitioned for peace, but now the moment had come to talk about war. Not just war with muskets, but a war of ideas, a war of separation. That morning, a tall Virginian named Richard Henry Lee rose to speak. What he offered wasn’t diplomacy. It was a clean and final break from Britain.

On a warm morning in early June 1918, somewhere amid the rolling farmland and wooded clearings of northern France, a handful of American Marines fixed bayonets, whispered prayers, and stepped into the wheat. It was June 6, 1918 and the woods they faced were called Belleau. Before sunset that day, more United States Marines would be killed or wounded than had fallen in every battle of the Corps’ previous 143-year history combined. That stretch of land would soon become sacred ground, known not just to historians and veterans but to anyone who believes liberty is bought with blood.

On this episode of Dave Does History, we take a long, hard look at one of the most controversial figures of the American West—Pat Garrett. You probably know him as the man who shot Billy the Kid, but Garrett’s story runs far deeper than that single, fateful moment in a darkened New Mexico bedroom. Born in Alabama, raised in Louisiana, and forged by the chaos of post-Civil War America, Garrett rose from cowboy to lawman, then fell into scandal, poverty, and betrayal. Along the way, he tangled with outlaws, politicians, and a few ghosts of his own making. He stood tall in a violent time, but by the end, he was a relic with more enemies than friends. Was he a hero, a hired gun, or just a man caught in the shifting winds of a vanishing frontier? Let’s find out together. This is the life and legacy of Pat Garrett.

When most Americans think of George III, they picture a tyrant in a powdered wig, raving about taxes and trying to crush the spirit of liberty. That image, baked into our national memory by revolution and rebellion, is not entirely wrong—but it is far from the whole story. George III, born in 1738 and crowned king in 1760, was a complicated man trying to steer a sprawling empire through one of the most turbulent centuries in modern history.

In Virginia’s House of Burgesses, a 29-year-old lawyer with a sharp tongue and a sharper sense of justice stood up and gave a speech that shook the walls of the chamber—and the foundations of British authority in America. As he warned his fellow legislators about the dangers of unchecked power, Henry’s words grew bold. Too bold, some thought. When he suggested that even King George III could become a tyrant, cries of “Treason!” erupted in the room.

Today on *Dave Does History*, we are digging into a law that did not just ruffle feathers—it rattled rafters. The Quartering Act of 1774, passed by a distant Parliament, gave royal governors the power to house British soldiers in uninhabited buildings across the colonies. To many Americans, it felt like a military boot stomping through the front gate. While it never quite put redcoats in the family parlor, it planted deep fears about government overreach and unchecked authority. This was not just about barns and barracks. It was about control, property, and liberty. We will explore what the law said, how colonists reacted, and why this act became a key grievance in the Declaration of Independence. Along the way, we will visit New Brunswick, New Jersey, where peace with the British army once reigned—before war changed everything. Grab a seat. History just knocked on the door and asked for a room.

On this episode of *Dave Does History*, we set sail into the heart of the Atlantic for one of the bloodiest naval battles you have never heard of—the Glorious First of June. It is 1794, and Revolutionary France is starving. A massive grain convoy from America becomes a lifeline, and the British Royal Navy is determined to cut it off. What follows is a brutal, chaotic clash between two great fleets, led by Admiral Richard “Black Dick” Howe and his French counterpart, Villaret de Joyeuse. Ships collide, captains disobey, cannons roar, and one French vessel sinks beneath the waves in revolutionary glory. But who really won? Was it the British with their captured ships, or the French who fed their people? Join us as we dive into a story of strategy, sacrifice, and a sea soaked in blood and gunpowder. This is not just a battle, it is a war for survival.

**What The Frock? – Podcast Introduction (150 Words)** This week on *What The Frock?*, Rabbi Dave and Friar Rod explore the fiery temper of the sun and the flaky madness of humanity. Rabbi Dave kicks things off with a surprise medical drama, proving once again that technology may be smart, but it’s not very thoughtful. From there, the holy duo turns their gaze skyward as a coronal mass ejection threatens to short-circuit satellites, radios, and perhaps our collective sanity. But fear not—because when the sun acts up, the British roll cheese downhill and call it tradition. We’ll unpack the pagan roots of Gloucester’s wildest dairy chase, the logic of podcast prep, and why unplanned preaching is theological anarchy. Plus, California politics, Kamala speculation, and a questionable attempt to attract young men to the Democratic Party. It’s solar flares, sanctimony, and sharp cheddar. Strap in. This one’s a ride.

It is one of the most overlooked inventions in modern science—a simple glass dish with a lid that quietly revolutionized the world. In this episode of *Dave Does History*, we explore the life of Julius Richard Petri, the man whose name lives on in labs and classrooms everywhere. From his work alongside Robert Koch to the dish that bears his name, Petri’s story is a reminder that sometimes the greatest impact comes from the simplest ideas. Join us as we examine how a small circle of glass became the launching pad for discoveries that still shape medicine and science today.

On this episode of *Dave Does History*, we travel back to the smoke-filled streets of Rouen in the spring of 1431. It is here, on May 30, that a nineteen-year-old peasant girl named Joan of Arc faced her final hour—chained to a stake, surrounded by fire, and steadfast in her faith. But Joan’s death was not the end of her story. It was the spark that lit centuries of legend, politics, and devotion. Today, we will explore the war-torn backdrop of the Hundred Years’ War, the voices that led Joan from her village to the battlefield, and the betrayal that brought her to the flames. With courage beyond her years and convictions that defied kings and bishops alike, Joan of Arc left a legacy that has echoed far beyond the pyre. Stay with us as we tell the human story behind the martyr, the miracle, and the maid of Orléans.

In this episode of *Dave Does History*, we revisit one of the most overlooked maritime tragedies of the 20th century—the sinking of the RMS *Empress of Ireland*. On May 29, 1914, just weeks before the world would plunge into war, the great liner went down in the frigid waters of the St. Lawrence River, taking 1,012 souls with her. Among the dead were 133 members of The Salvation Army, including many from the Canadian Staff Band, who were on their way to London for an international congress. This was no ordinary loss—it was a blow to the heart of a movement grounded in faith, music, and service. Today, we tell their story. Not of fame or fortune, but of faith, sacrifice, and remembrance. The tale of a joyous march that ended in silence, and of a mission that lives on in memory, brass, and song.

The morning of May 28, 585 BCE, must have felt like any other on the plains near the Halys River. For six long years, the Lydians and the Medes had been at war, clashing over territory and pride. There had been victories on both sides, defeats as well, and even a curious battle fought in the dark of night. But on this day, the two armies met once again, swords drawn and shields raised, unaware that history was about to change in a way no one could have expected.

On this episode of *Dave Does History*, Dave Bowman joins *Bill Mick Live* to explore how molasses, monarchs, and mismanagement helped ignite the American Revolution. From a failed cobra bounty in colonial India to the British government’s disastrous molasses tax in the 1700s, Dave draws a straight line from economic blunders to revolutionary fervor. He unpacks the moral rigidity of King George III, the post-war proclamation that enraged the colonies, and the shift from benign neglect to imperial enforcement. It’s history with bite—and just the right amount of sugar. Join us as *Liberty 250* marches on toward 1776.

King Edmund I ruled with courage and clarity during one of England’s most volatile eras. In just seven years, he beat back Viking invasions, secured alliances, and strengthened royal justice—only to die suddenly during mass. Discover the story of Edmund the Magnificent, the king history almost forgot.

Rabbi Dave and Friar Rod explore the blurred lines between faith, technology, and identity in this thought-provoking episode. From AI-written sermons to synthetic news anchors, they ask: what’s real, what’s righteous, and what’s just cleverly coded? A hilarious and insightful look at the digital age through sacred (and skeptical) eyes.

Before the colonies ever turned their attention toward revolution, before a single musket was fired at Lexington or Concord, two of Britain’s American provinces nearly came to blows with each other. The conflict was not about tea or taxes, but about maps, egos, and one particularly hard-headed frontiersman named Thomas Cresap. His name would come to define a little-known but bloody land dispute that began in the 1730s and simmered until King George II himself had to step in and draw the line. Literally.

Before there was freedom of religion in America, before Thomas Jefferson penned the Virginia Statute, before James Madison hammered out the First Amendment, there was a moment in 1688 when England, ever so cautiously, took a step toward religious tolerance. The Toleration Act of 1688, often referenced by its date of royal assent in 1689, was not a dramatic leap into liberty. It was more like loosening a stiff collar after a long and tense dinner. Yet even this modest breath of fresh air stirred ideas that would cross the Atlantic and take root in American soil.

On a crisp May morning in 1939, the crew of the USS Squalus set out from Portsmouth, New Hampshire, unaware that they were about to write one of the most remarkable chapters in submarine history. The Squalus was new. She was sleek, modern, and powerful. A Sargo-class submarine, she had been launched only the previous September, and commissioned into service just two months before. Her commander, Lieutenant Oliver Naquin, a Naval Academy graduate and seasoned submariner, had a reputation for discipline, attention to detail, and the quiet confidence needed to lead a crew through the perilous underworld of undersea warfare.

Alexander Pope was many things, but above all, he was a survivor. Born in London on May 21, 1688, he entered a world that was not built for a boy like him. His family was Roman Catholic at a time when that faith all but guaranteed exclusion from the institutions of power, education, and polite society. Thanks to the penal laws of the day, Pope could not attend university, hold public office, or even reside within ten miles of London or Westminster. On top of that, he suffered from a severe case of Pott disease, a form of tuberculosis that attacked his spine, stunted his growth, and left him physically deformed and often in pain. He grew to just four feet six inches tall, with a hunchback and a frail constitution. But what he lacked in height and health, he more than made up for in genius, wit, and relentless drive.