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.