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

In the summer of 1798, the United States faced one of its first real reckonings with liberty. The ink on the Constitution was barely dry, and the Bill of Rights, particularly that bold First Amendment, still had a new-car smell. But fear makes people do strange things. War fever with France was sweeping through the country, stoked by the XYZ Affair and the seizure of American ships. In that atmosphere of paranoia and suspicion, Congress passed a set of laws that would stain the legacy of President John Adams and put the meaning of American freedom to its first serious test.

This week on What the Frock?, Rabbi Dave and Friar Rod wade into deep moral waters with a question that’s dividing the conservative world: Does anyone actually care about the Epstein files? After President Trump declared “nobody cares,” the frocked duo takes him to philosophical task, exploring justice, trust, and the obligation to truth, even when it’s inconvenient. Along the way, they tackle everything from Supreme Court dissents possibly written by AI to their growing obsession with Major League Cricket. Yes, you read that right. It is a whirlwind of political theology, cracked cricket bats, and sanctified sarcasm. With fake sponsors like Blessed Ales and Shofar Wireless joining the fray, it is one of the sharpest and strangest episodes yet. Whether you're here for the righteous anger or the absurdist cricket commentary, this week’s show proves one thing for sure: we care. And we are not afraid to say it.

In the summer of 1787, while America’s greatest political minds were huddled in Philadelphia crafting the Constitution, another crucial act of nation-building was quietly unfolding in New York. The Confederation Congress, often remembered more for its failures than its triumphs, passed the Northwest Ordinance—one of the most influential pieces of legislation in American history. This wasn’t just a law about land. It was a blueprint for how liberty could stretch westward. It promised new states, public education, religious freedom, and most striking of all, it outlawed slavery in the territory. It defined how the nation would grow, who would have rights, and where the line between slavery and freedom would be drawn. Today on *Dave Does History*, we’re going to pull back the curtain on this powerful but often forgotten moment in our past. Because before there was a Bill of Rights, there was the Northwest Ordinance—and it changed everything.

On July 12, 1938, President Franklin D. Roosevelt rolled into Pueblo, Colorado aboard his special train, stood on the rear platform, and delivered a brief but memorable speech. The weather was pleasant, the crowd was cheerful, and FDR, ever the showman, tossed out a line that still echoes today: “We want to make democracy work.” It sounded noble. It sounded patriotic. But what did he *mean* by it? And how did that idea of democracy compare to the one envisioned by the Founding Fathers? In this episode of *Dave Does History*, we’re going back to that moment on the rails to dig into the deeper meaning behind Roosevelt’s words. Was democracy broken in 1938? Or was FDR just redefining it to fit his growing vision of federal power? As always, we’re bringing a skeptical eye and a love of liberty to the microphone, so buckle up. History’s pulling into the station.

On this episode of *Dave Does History*, we set our sights on one of the toughest warships to ever sail under the American flag—the USS *Nevada*. Launched in 1914 and sunk, finally, in 1948, the *Nevada* wasn’t just a battleship. She was a brawler. She took a torpedo at Pearl Harbor, shook off six bombs, stood back up, and got back into the fight. She bombarded beaches from Normandy to Okinawa and even stared down two atomic bombs at Bikini Atoll. And when it came time to sink her, the Navy had to throw everything it had just to put her under. Today we’re telling her story, from her dramatic solo sortie during the Day of Infamy to her rediscovery on the ocean floor decades later. It’s a story of steel, fire, and defiance—and of a ship that simply refused to die. This is the saga of the USS *Nevada*.

Today on Dave Does History, we’re cracking open one of the dustier chapters of the American presidency—one that begins not with fireworks and fanfare, but with cherries and spoiled milk. When President Zachary Taylor died unexpectedly on July 9, 1850, the nation turned to a man most Americans barely knew: Vice President Millard Fillmore. What followed was a presidency built on compromise, cautious pragmatism, and just enough action to hold the country together—for a while. Fillmore didn’t make grand speeches or lead men into battle. He was, by many accounts, a decent man in an indecent time. In today’s episode, we’ll explore Fillmore’s rise from a log cabin in upstate New York to the highest office in the land, the political drama that defined his presidency, and why history has been, let’s say, less than kind to his legacy. Strap in. It’s time to meet the most forgotten man ever to save a Union.

July 9, 1755. The forests of western Pennsylvania echoed with musket fire, panic, and the cries of wounded men as the mighty British Empire came face to face with a kind of war it didn’t understand. At the center of it all was a proud general who wouldn’t listen, an outnumbered enemy who knew the terrain, and a young Virginian named George Washington who refused to break. The Battle of the Monongahela should have been a victory. Instead, it became one of the most humiliating defeats in British colonial history. In this episode of Dave Does History, we’ll walk you through the bloody path to Fort Duquesne, unravel the leadership failures of General Edward Braddock, and witness the moment Washington’s legend truly began. This wasn’t just a battle. It was a brutal lesson in arrogance, terrain, and the unforgiving nature of frontier warfare. Stick around. This one gets personal.

On July 8, 1898, one of the Wild West’s most infamous con men met his end not in a saloon or a courtroom, but on a weathered dock at the edge of Skagway, Alaska. Jefferson Randolph “Soapy” Smith had made a career out of charming suckers and swindling prospectors, running everything from fake lotteries to rigged card games. He called himself a protector of order, but the people of Skagway saw through the illusion. When Soapy’s gang robbed a returning miner of his gold, the town finally had enough. What followed was a tense standoff between vigilantes and outlaws that exploded into a deadly shootout on the Juneau Wharf. This episode of *Dave Does History* dives deep into the man, the myth, and the final moments that ended a criminal empire with a crack of gunfire. It's a true tale of greed, grit, and a town that decided to fight back.

On this episode of *Dave Does History*, we’re heading back to the summer of 1520, deep into the heart of Mesoamerica, where a broken band of Spanish conquistadors found themselves surrounded by thousands of Aztec warriors on the dusty plains of Otumba. Hernán Cortés was battered, outnumbered, and on the brink of ruin. What happened next wasn’t a miracle—it was desperation, steel nerves, and a reckless cavalry charge that changed history. Today, we’ll dive into the truth behind the Battle of Otumba, cut through the myths of Spanish superiority, and explore how the conquest of the Aztecs nearly ended before it began. This isn’t your high school textbook version. This is a story of betrayal, blood, and blind luck, and it just might change the way you see the so-called conquest of the New World. Buckle up. Cortés is cornered, and the empire is on the line.

So, was John Paul Jones a hero made by war, or was the war at sea made by Jones? The final judgment, as ever, lies with history. And Jones, more than most, knew where history gets written. Not in marble halls or courtroom ledgers, but on the open water, where wind and gunpowder do the talking, and names are carved into memory by the pounding of the sea. John Paul Jones carved his. And it hasn’t washed away.

In the summer of 1775, a strange kind of tension blanketed the American colonies. Blood had already been spilled at Lexington and Concord. Boston was under siege. The Continental Congress had raised an army and chosen George Washington to lead it. But amid the smoke and gunpowder, there was still something deeper smoldering. Hope. Not for victory, not for revolution, but for peace. A very specific kind of peace. The colonists still believed in the idea of a “Patriot King,” a benevolent monarch who would rise above Parliament’s tyranny and deliver justice from on high. That king, they hoped, was George III.

It was July 4th, 1863, and the stars and stripes flew again over Vicksburg, Mississippi. But this wasn’t a celebration. There were no parades, no fireworks, no songs of freedom. In fact, for 81 years, Vicksburg would skip Independence Day altogether. That morning, under a blazing Southern sun, a grim procession of exhausted Confederate soldiers stacked their rifles, furled their flags, and surrendered their city to Union General Ulysses S. Grant. The Civil War had reached its great turning point.

Fifty years after the Battle of Gettysburg turned quiet Pennsylvania fields into a brutal crossroads of war, something extraordinary happened. The veterans came back. Not to fight. Not to argue. But to remember. To stand together on the same ridges and fields where they had once tried to kill each other, and shake hands instead. More than 53,000 of them, Union and Confederate, answered the call for a reunion that would become one of the largest peaceful assemblies of former enemies in history.

Caesar Rodney was no ordinary man. He was a physician, a farmer, and a military officer who had served in the Delaware Assembly. He was also one of the most ardent supporters of independence, but on the day of the vote, he was in Delaware, a 70-mile journey away from Philadelphia. Rodney had been in poor health and had been unable to attend the Continental Congress for some time. But on the day of the vote, he knew he had to be there. Delaware’s vote was still uncertain; the state had only two delegates in the Continental Congress, and one of them, Thomas McKean, was already in favor of independence. The other delegate, George Read, was firmly against it.

In this episode of *Dave Does History*, we travel back to 1774 and examine the moment when the British Crown pushed too far and the American colonies finally stood together. Host Dave Bowman joins *Bill Mick Live* to explore the Intolerable Acts, a series of harsh laws meant to punish Massachusetts but which instead united the colonies in defiance. From the closure of Boston’s port to the often-overlooked Quebec Act, Dave breaks down how these measures lit a fire across the continent. He also draws a powerful parallel to the 1497 Cornish Rebellion, showing how history often rhymes. We’ll meet the Committees of Correspondence, dig into the Fairfax and Suffolk Resolves, and witness the gathering at Carpenters’ Hall in Philadelphia. This is the episode where thirteen voices become one—and that voice says, clearly, “Enough.” Listen now and rediscover the moment when resistance turned into revolution.

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.