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What happens when a twelve-hour history epic meets two hosts who love maps, motives, and messy truths? We dove into the first two parts of PBS’s American Revolution and came up with a sharper, more honest read: there’s real value in the battle maps, the troop movements, and the logistics that make Lexington, Concord, and Bunker Hill feel tangible. But there’s also a framing choice that changes everything—less about English liberties, more about equality—and that shift colors Washington’s introduction, Jefferson’s contradictions, and how the documentary asks us to weigh ideals against interests.

We start with the early case for union: Franklin’s “Join, or Die,” the Iroquois Confederacy as political inspiration, and why the colonies were more rivals than teammates. Then we follow the money and the maps. The 1763 Proclamation Line strangled elite land speculation west of the Appalachians, pulling Virginia’s planter class and New England’s merchants toward the same fight for leverage. The film nails the military spine—Henry Knox’s impossible cannon haul from Ticonderoga, the brutal math at Bunker Hill, the strategic obsession with the Hudson–Lake Champlain corridor—while stumbling when every beat becomes a litmus test. Washington, introduced first as a slaveholder, is historically accurate yet context-poor; Benedict Arnold, by contrast, is drawn with nuance: daring, wounded, essential, then embittered.

We also zoom out to the British view: the empire’s real prize was the Caribbean and the southern colonies, not a rebellious Boston. Add in the Hessians, smallpox, and Lord Dunmore’s Proclamation, and you get a war shaped as much by disease and manpower as by declarations. Our take: the Revolution reads truer as a fight to preserve inherited English rights than as an egalitarian crusade, and the documentary works best when it lets those competing truths coexist. If you’re curious where the storytelling soars, where it stumbles, and what got left out—Magna Carta to Mayflower, local governance to militia culture—this breakdown is for you.

If you enjoyed the conversation, follow the show, share it with a friend who loves early America, and leave a quick review—what did the doc nail, and what did it miss?

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We ring in 2026 with fan calls, a messy production catch‑up, and a deep dive into Death by Lightning, using Garfield’s rise and Guiteau’s delusion to unpack the Gilded Age spoils system and a presidency undone by infection as much as a bullet. Chester Arthur’s surprising turn toward reform gives the story its heart.

• 1880 convention deadlock and Garfield’s dark horse nomination
• The spoils system, stalwarts vs half‑breeds, and Roscoe Conkling’s machine
• Guiteau’s forged notes, Blaine’s rebuke, and the psychology of entitlement
• The shooting, germ theory, and fatal medical error vs the bullet
• Alexander Graham Bell’s failed device and the autopsy dispute
• Arthur’s pivot from patronage to civil service reform
• Missed chances in the show: the trial, self‑defense, and “I am going to the Lordy”
• Our field trips, fan shoutouts, and what’s coming next

This episode is brought to you by the Strava app: if you sign up for a premium subscription and use the code nailed it, you get nothing off, but we get a kudos

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The plan was simple: drive to Charlottesville, see three presidential homes, soak in the views, and come back with a few good stories. What we got was a bracing look at how history is curated, where it gets messy, and how visitor experiences can either illuminate the past or accidentally hide it in plain sight. We start at Monticello, where Jefferson’s clever design choices and meticulous gadgets share space with a frank accounting of slavery, debt, and contradictions that won’t sit quietly on the tour bus. The foyer artifacts, the pulley calendar, and the Lewis and Clark links all impress—but the muddy lawn and scripted talking points tell their own tale about legacy and upkeep.

Then the plot twists at Highland. We wind up a beautiful, wooded drive expecting Monroe’s home and meet a yellow house, a guest house, and an archaeological dig. The reveal—delivered by a theatrical tour guide knocking on an empty foundation—lands somewhere between clever and deflating. It raises honest questions about transparency: if the house burned in the 1820s, what exactly are we touring? There’s value in the research and the landscape, but for visitors seeking Monroe himself, Fredericksburg’s dedicated museum looks like the smarter bet.

Montpelier brings the clarity we were hunting. With DuPont-era layers acknowledged and peeled back, the tour builds a richer picture of Madison’s life, the Constitution’s context, and the brutal economics of enslavement on the estate. The exhibits beneath the house do the heavy lifting—names, roles, reconstructed quarters—and the guide threads together how debt, decisions, and power shaped people’s lives, including families sold south “down the river.” It’s thoughtful, grounded, and surprisingly moving.

Between site visits we wander UVA’s Rotunda and find refuge at Miller’s, an old-school bar with pool tables and PBR that reminded us travel is as much about the in-between moments as the headline stops. If you care about American history, architecture, and how institutions tell hard stories, this one’s for you. Hit play, subscribe for more road-tested deep dives, and tell us: which site would you visit first, and why?