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:

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: