Meet Shaboozey: The Hip-Hop Country Cowboy America Didn't Know It Needed

“Make America cowboy again.”

Recently, I saw this car sticker on the back of a Toyota hatchback whilst ponying along Poinsettia Avenue in Vista, California. 

Pulls the reins there, Kiwi-boy; tap those breaks!

The Toyota sped off before I could take a picture of the sticker, but its message had already opened the great plains of my imagination...Personally, I think a Mustang—metallic blue 1964½ Ford Mustang Coupe—would have been a more suitable vehicle to affix such messaging, but that’s just me.

A tip of the black Jacaru to the sentiment, but I say we raise the stakes: let’s give America a singing cowboy again!

I know what you’re thinking (with your imaginary Duke impression): “Whoa, take 'er easy there, pilgrim! What’s wrong with Ken Maynard, Gene Autry, Tex Ritter, Herb Jeffries, and Roy Rogers?

Nothing. High five to those legends; love and listen to them all. But we need to add a new stable to the Pantheon of singing cowboys and I have just the man to get “back in the saddle again.”

Shaboozey!

Who?

Collins Obinna Chibueze.

Say that three times. Chibueze, Shabueze, Shaboozey (a stage name that stemmed from his high school football coach mispronouncing his Nigerian last name) whilst enjoying libations with your posse.

Our trails crossed for the very first time on Thursday, October 23, 2025. The first Week 8 game of the NFL Season on Thursday Night Football on Prime Video had the Los Angeles Chargers pitted against the Minnesota Vikings (the Chargers savaged the Vikings 37-10; tip of the Jacaru to Coach Harbaugh, Herbert, McConkey, Allen, and the lads). The post-game performer for the Amazon Music Live series was Shaboozey!

If anyone is ready for Prime Time, it’s this singing cowboy!

Dressed in a brown leather vest, chaps, fringe, boots, cowboy hat, with a concho belt, Shaboozey looked and sang the part. But this was no act: Shaboozey is an authentic artist who combines e pluribus unum-style country, Americana, and hip-hop music into a sound that is his own. Ironically, the opening number of the Amazon Music Live concert was “Last of My Kind.” Nah, sir, one-of-a-kind!

Or as you gave voice/song to: “You won't never find another like me, I'm the last of my kind.”

As Shaboozey opens the concert his unique voice captures the country music affect that’s hard to epitomize in words. But to paraphrase Justice Potter Stewart’s famous opinion, “I know it when I hear it.” There’s a sincerely, a grit, an expression of the wistfulness’s of the heart.

But “Debbie Downer” is not in the setlist. Each song is its own musical ode that invites one’s inner Wayne's World characters Wayne or Garth, (your choice) to groove and sway along with the song (please no beat-up Pacer; 1964 ½ Ford Mustang Coupe).

The effect of Shaboozey’s music on me was immediate. Up from the couch, this human spud transformed into a curly fry springing up and down to the music. The studio audience at the live event was equally appreciative. Considering it took place after an NFL game, all that was missing was NFL Quarterback Russell Wilson, dressed to the threes as his Denver Bronco incarnation, shout out, “Let’s Ride.”

During the concert Shaboozey asks the audience, “Are y’all ready for the greatest show in America?”

Again and again and again.

Copyright © 2025

Tag someone who needs to hear Shaboozey!

Get Thee to a Nunnery!

“Get thee to a nunnery!”

I’m serious.

Too harsh?

As we all know this command is from the Bard’s Hamlet. In Act 3, Scene 1, the title character, The Prince of Denmark, distraught and of tenuous mental state, delivers it with vitriol to Ophelia. And it has remained in our collective repertoire of famous theatrical one-liners for over four hundred years.

Let’s take it down a notch…hmm…how about “With sound mind and fair heart, I do declare: Get thee to The House of St. Bridget in Assisi, Italy.”

Recently, I did. ’Tis true, ’tis true, and I loved it!

What? How did you, a country lad from West Auckland, New Zealand, end up there?

To quote another of Hamlet’s lines: “That is the question.”

And I’ll address it, so don’t get a bee in your black veil. But first some context. The House gets its name from Saint Bridget (1303—1373). “The Mystic of the North” was a Catholic born in Sweden to a wealthy family related to Swedish royalty. As a child she had mystic visions, and after the passing of her husband in 1344 went on to found the Bridgettines (Order of the Most Holy Savior).

In 1349, she travelled to Rome and remained there (she did make a pilgrimage to Jerusalem) until her passing. In 1999, Pope John Paul II declared Saint Bridget one of the Patron Saints of Europe. She is also the Patron Saint of widows and Sweden. The Swedish apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, for Saint Bridget’s fourth child became Saint Catherine of Sweden.

Today, besides Europe, The Order of the Most Holy Savior of Saint Bridget has a presence in the Middle East, Asia, North America, Central America, and Cuba.

And in answer to “that question”: my daughter Dani recommended it to me. She betook herself there on a trip to Italy and is a lass who appreciates transcendent experiences. (The kiwifruit doesn’t fall far from the vine.) By email, I simply contacted Sister Marcellina in Assisi and made a booking for my wife and me.

I acknowledge as a tourist, you have many choices in accommodation from the usual chain conglomerate suspects, Airbnb, to even boutique hotels. I posit, considering the location, location, location of Assisi what could be more boutique and budget-friendly than The House of St. Bridget in Assisi?

The simplicity, silence, and solitude offered there permits one to step back from perennially taking selfies to a more introspective “Know thy Self[ie]” (tip of the Jacaru to the famous Delphic maxim inscribed on the Temple of Apollo). A chance to be still in body and mind; “be still and know that I am God” stillness.

Please don’t assume that you must be Catholic to stay there. I’m not. Whether you’re an atheist, agnostic, sinner, or saint, C & E in mass attendance or as Catholic as Pope Leo XIV—all are welcome.

As the website of The Order of the Most Holy Savior of St. Bridget states, “The enchanting countryside and the warm welcome of the Bridgettine sisters make this house an ideal place for a pleasant holiday.” Let’s take it up a notch: more pleasant, nay, most pleasant holiday!

The countryside, aka, The Green Heart of Italy, provided us the opportunity for truffle tasting and a museum tour near Perugia; wine tasting in Montefalco; olive tasting in Monte del Lago; a ferry ride to Isola Maggiore; and the highlight of the trip: paying prayerful homage and respect to Saint Clare and Saint Francis at their respective basilicas in Assisi.

Our last day concluded with a seven o’clock morning mass in Italiano, and a simple but scrumptious breakfast with our hostess, Sister Citadal, a nun who beamed a gracious smile with service, and humility. Afterward whilst packing my suitcase and woofing down fresh olives my wife, Teresa, had purchased from a street vendor, I did see from my window a rainbow, a divine assurance that all is well.

Indeed.

So: get thee; go thee; you’ll thank me!

Copyright © 2025

Stephen J. Groak Books:

Blinded by the Light

“Blinded by the Light. Wrapped up like a douche, another runner in the night” (singing).

What?

“Blinded by the Light. Wrapped up like a douche, another runner in the night” (singing).

What?

Love that Manfred Mann’s Earth Band song. Always cranked it on Radio Hauraki when it was played. The Chopsticks variation melody, the pulsating of the cymbals in the opening—the chances for air guitar during the guitar riffs—“Blinded by the light. Wrapped up like a douche, another runner in the night” (singing plus air guitar).

Whoa, mate, hold those verbal horses. What did you sing in the second line?

Wrapped up like a douche, another runner in the night.

Nah, mate. “Revved up like a deuce, another runner in the night.”

Not even, ow. I’ve been stuffing that up forever. Cut me some slack, bro; I’m as old as vinyl.  As Mr. Morgan, my English teacher, would say: “Lad, you’ve just committed a monk’s degree.”

Mondegreen…oh, you’re taking the piss out of me.

Any chance I can. Seriously, I didn’t know the correct lyrics. In fact, one of the reasons I loved “Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band” was that the lyrics were printed on the back cover of the album. And lemme guess: “deuce” is not a tennis reference?

A "deuce” coupe is a classic 1932 Ford two-door car.

My poppa worked for Bignell & Holmes, a Ford dealership in Gisborne, New Zealand. I wonder if he ever serviced one of those bad boys!

While we have the engine revving, there’s more: Manfred Mann’s Earth Band “Blinded by the Light” is a cover. It was written by Bruce Springsteen.

I’m gobsmacked. New Jersey’s favourite son—The Boss.

Yeah, bro. It appeared on his ’73 debut album, Greetings from Asbury Park, N.J.

Well, aren’t you the DJ du jour. If we’re going old school, then I’m going old school of yore! No rock songs, no rock stars, no rock concerts—just rocks on the Road to Damascus.

Road to Damascus?

Yes, wasn’t there a bloke also blinded by the light?

Saint Paul. It can happen when you look at The Son of He who proclaimed, “Let there be light.”

Is it blasphemous for me to say, “Let us be lighthearted”?

No. God has a sense of humour. For me, it’s a fascinating subject. You know physical light acts as both a particle and a wave.

Well, aren’t you the physicist du jour; a regular Albert Einstein. Enlighten me.

His famous equation—E=mc²—does include light. Have you ever thought about what it means?

It’s on my mental to-do list. Right up there after memorizing pi. For now, I’m still trying to figure out how we got from Springsteen to Einstein.

Spinning a yarn. Basically, Einstein shows that the energy of any object is equal to its mass multiplied by the square of the velocity of light.

186,000 miles per second.

You did stay awake in physics at KBHS. From the equation we can determine that the speed of light is a mathematical constant. That the mass of an object increases with its velocity, and that it can never achieve the speed of light.

Not even hooning around on the back roads of West Auckland?

No, bro.

(Singing): “But, Mama, that’s where the fun is!”

Between bros, only an object with infinite mass could equal the speed of light.

Sounds metaphysical.

I’ll let you know when I get there.

© 2025

Stephen J. Groak Books:

Yes, Mate—I'm Now On Substack

 https://substack.com/@kiwieagle64

boon eat + drink

Boon.

Cool word, eh!

Regular readers to my blog know I am unashamedly a word nerd, and "boon" was a recent word-of-the-day discovery during my diurnal dive into Autobiography of a Yogi by Paramahansa Yogananda.

First some housekeeping: Our mates at Merriam-Webster define the noun “boon” as:

1. a timely benefit : blessing.

2. benefit, favor, especially one that is given in answer to a request.

Of course, as a lad growing up in New Zealand, I knew the word “Boone,” Daniel (RIP, Fess Parker) that is, from the telly. And for those old enough to remember the American action/adventure TV show, sing it with me:

Daniel Boone was a man,

Yes, a big man!

With an eye like an eagle

And as tall as a mountain was he!

On the sylvan playground of a West Auckland kiwifruit orchard, this boy often pretended to be this “man.” My Red Band gumboots were my “rawhide shoes” and yes, I did once throw a small axe at a tree hoping to split it in two. Ah, “what a dream-come-a-truer was ‘me!’”

Fast-forward to May, 2025 and the verdant playground of yesteryear was now sunny Sonoma County, California, on a getaway weekend with my wife, Teresa. The “coonskin cap on the top of ol’ Stevie" was my signature black Jacaru, and our trails concerned the majesty of Wine Country.

To my delight, my word-nerd eagle eye spotted “boon eat + drink” in the search results during an online query of places to eat. What a boon! A farm-to-table bistro by chef/owner Crista Luedtke in Guerneville offered a chance to eat + drink + reinforce a newly acquired word to my vocabulary.

I had to eat at this restaurant. I had to drink at this bistro. I had to know why the word “boon” was in the name. Menu, ratings, and reviews have their place—but for this patron diction was the overriding reason to visit. My wife and I headed off posthaste to 16248 Main Street, Guerneville, California snuggled in the Russian River Valley.

After we were seated, the cozy and hip ambiance of the place washed over us. Festive, too (three ladies at an adjacent table were wearing birthday party hats). If additional singers were needed to meet the socially acceptable “happy birthday” quorum, my wife and I were ready.

Marisa, our waitress, a cheerful lady of unfeigned mien, provided us with menus and an opportunity to voice a question yearning emancipation from the tip of my tongue.

“Marisa, I’m curious as to why the word 'boon' is in the name of the bistro. I know it means a timely benefit or blessing, but what’s the backstory on its use?"

“Boon was the name of the owner’s black-and-white rescue dog. He’s since passed on, a few years ago.”

The naming itch had been scratched; it was time to eat + drink.

“Anything you recommend?” asked Teresa.

“Everything is good. The shishito peppers are very popular.”

Good, nay, great they were: forget diction, benediction, all-hail-to-the-kitchen good! We followed that with seared duck breast served over fennel puree and spring veggies (moi), and pan-seared salmon with black lentils, kale, brown butter, smoked yogurt and blistered tomatoes (Teresa).

As I savoured every mouthful, pairing with a Golden State Cider, I was reminded of my parents’ dining rule of “always eat everything on your plate.” I honoured them both—and then some!

Tip of the Jacaru to Boon the dog; dear reader, go visit this delightful bistro and eat + drink.

🥝🥝🥝🥝

© 2025

Stephen J. Groak Books:

Grazie, Sal Da Vinci & Arisa, Grazie, Grazie!

Grazie.

It's Italian for...never mind, enough said.

Scusa. There's more.

Grazie.

I heard that word a lot at the Sound Waves Theater at the Hard Rock Casino and Hotel in Atlantic City, New Jersey. My beloved wife had won a weekend stay in Boardwalk City, which also included dinner reservations and tickets to a show.

Grazie.

At 8 P.M. sharp on Saturday, March 29, 2025, we were in the Sound Waves lobby awaiting entry to the show. As I people watched, stayed out of the way of the CIAO USA TV crew, and eavesdropped on conversations, one salient, Lake Garda-like realization dawned on me: everyone was speaking Italian. Everyone—young and old. And tonight's concert would also be all in italiano.

Geographically this made sense. From the late 19th to the early 20th centuries, lots of Italian immigrants settled in New Jersey, contributing significantly to the social fabric. Why wouldn't there be enough Italian-speaking Americans to support a concert in italiano?

However—mea culpa—beside the word for "thank you," my Italian is limited: pizza, Lamborghini, Papa, pecorino, Sagrantino di Montefalco. Certainly not enough to explain the Pythagorean theorem (I prefer Greek for that), and not enough to understand every word of what was to be sung. But I know good music when I hear it (whatever the language) and I was ready to be entertained.

Furthermore, I currently live in Los Angeles, so am used to navigating a multilingual world. My beloved wife is the daughter of Mexican immigrants, so I hear (and speak) Spanish every day. And growing up in New Zealand, especially in Auckland, I would often hear Te Reo Māori, Tongan, Samoan, Niuean and others.

An air of anticipation filled the theater as we were guided to our seats (A 11-12). And then... Arisa came out on stage, nay, glided out on stage. With shoulder length hair, and a full-length black gown, she was a personification of grace, beauty, and class. Her high cheek bones accentuated a dignified countenance; I could not wait to hear this woman sing.

And sing she did—passionate, heartfelt songs (if I may borrow from another Romance language: joie de vivre!) that resonated with the audience. Between songs, Arisa would converse with the audience...one time I believe she was thanking and declaring her love for her mother. We all were.

At the end of her performance, Arisa taped a selfie of herself and her bandmates. In the background, the audience is waving and cheering with gratitude and enthusiasm, myself included.

Later research revealed that Arisa is actually the stage name for Rosalba Pippa, born in Genoa, Italy. "Arisa" is an acronym arranged from the first letters of her family members' names: A (dad Antonio), R (herself Rosalba), I (sister Isabella), S (sister Sabrina), and A (mum Assunta). My acronym would be: A Really Iconic Soulful Artist.

The next and final performer was Sal Da Vinci. The man exuded charm, charisma, and knew how to work an audience. And work it he did—belting out song after song to a widely appreciative audience (the folks who self-identified from Naples had their own banner).

The last time I had seen such stage presence and magnetism was when I saw Michael Damian as Joseph in Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat in Los Angeles at the Pantages Theatre on Thursday, April 15, 1993 (Dear Diary, grazie).

The other dynamic in Sal Da Vinci's performance was the crown interaction—from a baby in a carrier to elderly patrons with walkers—and everyone age group in between, all were so into this artist. Teenage girls, their mums, and grandparents too would regularly stand up and sing along with Mr. Da Vinci. By the end of the night my wife and I were standing up and "singing" along! We were fans; we were with la famiglia.

In September, 2025, my wife and I will be holidaying in Italy. But on this March evening, in the Sound Waves Theater, Italy came to America. 

Grazie, Sal Da Vinci & Arisa, grazie, grazie!

🥝🥝🥝🥝

© 2025

Stephen J. Groak Books:

Bird by Bird and a Kiwi Too

Recently, my daughter Dani gave me a copy of Anne Lamott's, Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life, the 25th Anniversary Edition. 

Being a quarter-century late to the party, and from New Zealand/Aotearoa—"land of the long white cloud," a few puffs of doubt crept into my mind as I contemplated writing this blog: What can I possibly add to what has already been written about this seminal book?

And then there was light: What it means to you! And after devouring it, my reaction: gobsmacked.

I have read a number of books on writing. My home library has some of the usual suspects: Story by Robert McKee; The Hero With a Thousand Faces by Joseph Campbell; The Elements of Style by Strunk and White (grammar nerds forever). And I do live in Los Angeles...Screenplay: The Foundations of Screenwriting by Syd Field; The Hollywood Standard by Christopher Riley; and my autographed copy of Save the Cat by Blake Snyder (RIP, sir). Let's not forget Jerry Jenkins—big fan!

But this text was different. 

How?

Several days passed and numerous cups of coffee consumed before insights slowly percolated and took form in my consciousness...drip...drip...drip...

I have never met Anne Lamott, seen any YouTube videos about her, and until Dani gave me this New York Times bestseller—I had never even read any of her books.  Yet like all great writing, it spoke to me on a deeply personal—proton, neutron, electron level. It was like she knew me: We had been childhood friends playing in the sylvan areas of the Waitākere Ranges. Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life was suddenly a literary conduit to a best mate, mentor, confidant, cheerleader, writing coach, mum...Shall I continue?

As I pored over each page, I laughed, nay, guffawed. I sighed. I cried. And finally spied the eureka line on page 204:

"Being enough was going to have to be an inside job."

Gobsmacked.

"Being enough was going to have to be an inside job."

It's worth repeating. Let that inner realization sink in to the very core of your being. I'll wait...

I remember when I first self-published, Christmas Yve: A Kiwi Elf's Dream to Join Santa, I had already started searching for a barn for my soon-to-be-acquired unicorn. And I was pursuing rainbows with the passion of Helen Hunt's and Bill Paxton's characters—storm chasers—in the 1996 movie Twister.

Alas. My worldly writing dreams that I convinced myself would fill all the potholes of emptiness within my soul did not manifest. I still believe in unicorns...I just don't own one. And my longed-for pot of gold is a wedding band from my beloved wife.

I hope I am not coming off as whiny. In my wallet is my SAG-AFTRA card (must pay my dues) and my library card—just no Victim Card. 

Believe me, for you, for me, for all the members in our Writers Group Chat, I want you to experience every success (however you gauge that). I want your books to be as ubiquitous as  James Patterson's—available at every airport bookstore in the world! I want your masterpiece to be studied in high schools like I studied Fahrenheit 451 at KBHS in Mr. Morgan's English class. Like J.K. Rowling, I want your book series to be made into movies, plays, theme parks, and merchandise to be given away in Happy Meals when you take your sprog to Maccas. Just don't fall victim to your ego's wiles that external treasure will complete you. "You complete me" is a line best delivered by movie star Tom Cruise. He has the gravitas, good looks, filmography, and belief system to pull it off!

This is why I found Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life so grounded. Anne Lamott is a published author. She is a New York Times best-selling author. Yet never did I glean from the book that the art, process, and business of writing were in themselves all-fulfilling. "Being enough"...You know it by now. 

Concomitant with the craft of writing, Ms. Lamott's text also addressed the inner emotional, psychic, even spiritual challenges that writers experience with a voice that was humorous, compassionate, and understanding. This is why I could not put her book down.

For example: Writers sometimes feel jealous of other writers' success. Mea culpa. Writers sometimes tune in and get stuck on the self-loathing track in their mental radio. Mea culpa. Writers sometimes do not eat or listen to their greens, especially broccoli. Mea culpa. 

Okay, one last time, mentally with eyes closed, deeply affirm each word:

"Being enough was going to have to be an inside job."

🥝🥝🥝🥝

Of course no homage to Ms. Lamott's book, her dad, and older brother's homework project (reflected in the title) would be complete without a description of a bird I know and love:

The kiwi is a flightless, tailless, nocturnal bird native to New Zealand. Because this bird is a national icon, New Zealanders are often referred to as Kiwis. 

It dwells in the bush, sleeping in burrows during the day and forages for food—larvae, insects, worms—with its long beak by night. There are five species of kiwi: great spotted kiwi, little spotted kiwi, rowi, brown kiwi, and tokoeka.

Not being able to fly makes kiwis particularly vulnerable to stoats, dogs, ferrets, even humans. Fortunately, New Zealand's Department of Conservation and national charity Save the Kiwi are dedicated to safeguard our beautiful kiwi. I invite you to participate in this noble effort! 

© 2025

Stephen J. Groak Books: