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

On the morning of June 30, 1908, something exploded over the Siberian wilderness with the force of a nuclear bomb—flattening over 80 million trees, lighting up skies across Europe, and shaking the Earth with a shockwave that circled the globe. But no crater was found. No rock. Just scorched forest and a century-old mystery. In this episode, we dive into the Tunguska Event, the most powerful impact in recorded history that left behind more questions than answers. Was it a comet? An asteroid? A warning shot from the cosmos? We’ll explore what scientists know, what they still debate, and why this event matters more than ever in our modern world. This isn't just a story about what happened in 1908—it's a story about what could happen tomorrow. So buckle up. The sky is not as quiet as we like to think.

This week on *What the Frock?*, Rabbi Dave and Friar Rod wade into the holy waters of absurdity with a story so bizarre it could only be real. When the Prime Minister of Armenia offers to prove his religious bona fides by flashing the head of the national church, our frocked duo cannot resist diving into the theological and anatomical madness. But that’s just the opening act. They also tackle America’s recent bombing of Iran, explore why ESPN made a commentator apologize for saying something patriotic, and laugh their way through Texas’ new law that slaps warning labels on Doritos. There’s cricket, instant coffee conspiracies, and even a rant about Republicans acting like bureaucrats. It’s irreverent, insightful, and unapologetically offbeat. So pour some Bustelo, grab a snack not banned in Europe, and prepare yourself for another wild ride through the sacred and the profane. This is *What the Frock?*

In the long and violent history of war, there are days when everything breaks. June 28, 1950, was one of those days. Just four days into the Korean War, the world seemed to come unglued on the Korean Peninsula. Chaos did not just reign, it roared. Orders were ignored or misunderstood, cities fell faster than anyone expected, and in the scramble to survive, soldiers and civilians alike were caught in a hurricane of confusion, brutality, and panic. The events of that single day tell a story not just of battle, but of collapse, betrayal, and the shattering of human dignity under the boots of war.

The Cornish Rebellion of 1497 wasn’t born in taverns or whispered in secret. It started openly, in the clear air of St. Keverne on the Lizard Peninsula, where a blacksmith named Michael Joseph spoke out against a tax that made no sense to his people. England was raising money to wage war against Scotland, supposedly to crush a Yorkist pretender named Perkin Warbeck. To the Cornish, it was lunacy. Scotland was hundreds of miles away, and Warbeck meant nothing to them. They saw it for what it was: a power play among kings and courtiers, and one they were being forced to bankroll.

In June of 1963, the Cold War stood like a concrete wall between freedom and tyranny—quite literally in Berlin. President John F. Kennedy, in one of the most electrifying moments of his presidency, traveled to the divided city to deliver a message not just to Germans, but to the world. With the phrase *"Ich bin ein Berliner,"* he declared solidarity with those trapped behind the Iron Curtain, turning a routine diplomatic visit into a timeless call for liberty. This was no mere campaign speech—it was defiance with a Boston accent, aimed squarely at the Kremlin. In today’s episode of *Dave Does History*, we revisit Kennedy’s iconic speech from the steps of Rathaus Schöneberg. What did it mean then, and what does it still mean now? Grab your metaphorical passport and prepare to cross through Checkpoint Charlie—we’re heading straight into the heart of Cold War rhetoric and the courage it took to speak it.

It was just past 11 p.m. on a steamy June 25, 1906 when Harry Kendall Thaw, millionaire playboy and professional lunatic, stood up from his table at the rooftop theatre of Madison Square Garden. The show, a light musical romp called Mam’zelle Champagne, was wrapping up. The crowd was cheerful, a little drunk, and completely unprepared for what was about to happen. Across the room, at his usual table, sat the man Thaw hated more than anyone on earth. Stanford White, the famous architect, the designer of the very building they were in, was taking in the show without a care in the world. That’s when Thaw pulled out his pistol, walked up to him, and shot him three times in the face.

In this episode of *Liberty 250*, we follow Benjamin Franklin’s journey from loyal servant of the British Crown to committed American revolutionary. It begins with the Hutchinson Letter Scandal, where Franklin’s attempt to ease tensions by quietly exposing colonial corruption backfires, igniting public fury and British outrage. Then comes the Boston Tea Party—a dramatic protest Franklin condemns as reckless vandalism. But the Crown’s overreaction, in the form of the Coercive Acts, makes clear to Franklin that reconciliation is a fantasy. Humiliated before the Privy Council, stripped of his post, and cast out of polite society, Franklin crosses a personal Rubicon. He returns to America not as a diplomat, but as a patriot. By 1776, he is helping draft the Declaration of Independence. Tune in as we trace the events that transformed one of the most reasonable men in the empire into a founding father of rebellion.

Before there were keyboards, before there were screens, there was the rhythmic clatter of metal keys striking paper. In this episode of *Dave Does History*, we’re rolling back to June 23, 1868—the day Christopher Latham Sholes received a patent for a curious contraption called the “Type-Writer.” What started as a tinkerer’s solution to sloppy handwriting became one of the most transformative inventions in modern history. It reshaped business, opened doors for women in the workplace, and even taught generations how to write and think in rhythm. But behind the clack of keys is a very human story—one of trial, error, jammed keys, and unexpected revolution. Join us as we tell the tale of how a printer from Milwaukee helped usher in the age of modern communication, and how the legacy of his invention lives on every time you tap a key. Spoiler alert: QWERTY was no accident.

History doesn’t often repeat itself on the exact day. But sometimes, it seems to have a cruel sense of timing. Twice, on June 22, Europe’s most powerful warlords, Napoleon Bonaparte in 1812 and Adolf Hitler in 1941, looked across their maps, stared toward the East, and decided they could break the Russian bear. Both gambled that a lightning campaign would bring Moscow to heel. Both sent enormous armies marching toward Russian soil. And both, despite different ideologies, weapons, and centuries, walked straight into the same trap.

This week on *What the Frock?*, Rabbi Dave and Friar Rod explore the unexpected brilliance of artificial intelligence… and its tendency to ignore instructions entirely. What starts as a simple rant about Glenn Beck’s A.I. paranoia turns into a hilariously absurd deep dive into a 1972 Italian gibberish song and a modern A.I.-generated bumper track that may or may not have written better lyrics than our hosts. Along the way, there’s talk of Tai Chi, Twitter echo chambers, the strange support of WNBA players by unlikely fans, and why skipping the podcast’s musical intro might be your greatest mistake yet. It’s thoughtful, weird, and wildly entertaining—just the way the Friar likes his wine and the Rabbi likes his Oreos. So gather round, ye lost and daft, and hear a tale of nonsense, satire, and whatever the frock happened this week. This is “What the A.I. Frock?” and you don’t want to miss it.

He was a man who could have had it easy. Enoch Poor had built a comfortable life for himself in Exeter, New Hampshire. He was a skilled craftsman, a successful shipbuilder, and a respected merchant. He had a wife he loved, children he cherished, and a business that provided for his family and neighbors alike. But when the call to arms came, when the fires of rebellion lit up the colonies, Poor didn’t stay in his shop carving dovetail joints. He picked up a musket and answered the call, and for the next five years he led thousands of men through snow, mud, hunger, sickness, and battle in a fight for independence. And then, in 1780, he died under circumstances so murky and controversial they’re still being debated today. What is clear, though, is that Enoch Poor was one of the best men Washington ever had.

It was a warm June afternoon in 1980, and I was sixteen years old when I walked into a movie theater in Tacoma, WA, and saw my very first R-rated film. It wasn’t some gritty drama or raunchy sex comedy. It was The Blues Brothers. And in that moment, somewhere between the blast of "She Caught the Katy" and Jake’s gravity-defying backflip at the Triple Rock Baptist Church, something changed. I didn’t just watch that movie. I felt it. The music, the madness, the swaggering, black-suited absurdity. It was rock and roll, rhythm and blues, slapstick and salvation all rolled into a hundred-mile-an-hour police chase. And it’s never left me.

Art Rooney of the Steelers and Alexis Thompson of the Eagles agreed to merge their franchises for one season only. The league gave it a nod, and the team was officially listed as the “Phil-Pitt Combine.” But the fans, as fans do, came up with a much better name. The Steagles.

The morning of June 18, 1815, broke damp and heavy with the scent of churned mud and spent gunpowder. South of the quiet village of Waterloo, Belgium, two great ridges faced one another across a narrow valley, each bristling with men and iron. The ground, soaked by a night of rain, sucked at boots and wheels alike. The air hung with tension. The clouds were lifting, but thunder of a different kind would soon follow. On one side stood Napoleon Bonaparte, the Emperor returned from exile, mounted on a gray stallion and wrapped in the weight of old glory. On the other, the Duke of Wellington’s lines stood silent behind the rise, hidden from sight, dug into the earth like an English bulldog waiting for the right moment to bite. Cannons sat in mud, cavalry readied their sabers, and infantry braced to hold or die. The Battle of Waterloo was about to begin. By the end of the day, Europe would change forever.

In this explosive episode of Dave Does History, Dave Bowman joins Bill Mick to dissect the chain of events that lit the fuse of the American Revolution. From the biting street politics of the Sons of Liberty to the fatal musket blast on a snowy Boston night, Dave walks us through the Boston Massacre with sharp insight and sharp elbows. You'll meet a wigmaker’s apprentice, a furious redcoat, and a 12-year-old boy whose funeral became political theater. You'll hear how propaganda, principle, and powder all collided on King Street. And most importantly, you’ll discover how John Adams—armed with nothing but conviction and a powdered wig—stood tall for justice in a world teetering on the edge of revolt. If you've ever wondered how a snowball, a silversmith, and a jury of farmers helped launch a nation, this episode is for you. Liberty, law, and legacy—served up Boston-style.

Pétain’s story is a tragedy in two acts. In the first, he was the disciplined general who saved France from annihilation. In the second, he became the face of national shame, a man who surrendered not only to the enemy but to fear, compromise, and moral collapse.

In this scorching episode of What The Frock?, titled Frockenheit 451, Rabbi Dave and Friar Rod strike the match on a world increasingly allergic to free thought. Kicking things off with a curious domestic moment—Dave’s wife, a night-shift nurse, is unaware of major world events—the duo explores how political disengagement and echo chambers have become survival tactics in a polarized age. From the deadly political violence in Minnesota to media silence on left-wing extremism, the episode doesn’t flinch. The hosts tackle the dangerous rise of “approved phrases,” groupthink, and the weaponization of language, drawing unsettling parallels to Fahrenheit 451 and 1984. They also dive into the geopolitical tinderbox between Israel and Iran, the ideological delusions of Western activists in Gaza, and the strange cultural black hole that is Blue Sky’s leftist echo chamber. It’s thoughtful, fiery, and grimly funny—like a torchlit stroll through a banned-book bonfire. If you're tired of pretending that Orwell was a ho

On June 15, 1776, in a little brick courthouse nestled along the banks of the Delaware River, something extraordinary happened. Long before the ink dried on Jefferson’s Declaration or the bells rang out in Philadelphia, a smaller, lesser-known group of patriots made a decision just as bold and perhaps even braver. Delaware, or what was then known as the Lower Counties on the Delaware, stood up, squared its shoulders, and said, enough. Enough of British rule.

They didn’t call it the United States Army, not yet. They called it the Continental Army. It wasn’t much to look at. Ragtag farmers and tradesmen with worn boots and mismatched coats, some carrying their grandfather’s musket, others with nothing but a pitchfork and righteous anger. But it was the beginning of something that still stands strong today.

Every so often, history hands us a coincidence so odd, so strangely poetic, that it demands a second look. June 13 is one of those days. It’s not just your average square on the calendar. It also happens to be the birthday of not one, but two kings from the same royal bloodline. Both born on June 13, just sixteen years apart. Both named Charles. One called “the Bald” and the other “the Fat.” You couldn’t make this up if you tried. It sounds like a medieval comedy duo, but these were real men who sat on real thrones and wrestled with the real collapse of Charlemagne’s mighty empire.