These wishes won't make it in time for December.

I looked at the archives and realized, holy crap, I had not done a single post in December! Sure, I updated the TV schedule and a few other things over the past month, but I felt the need to sit and write a real post so I wouldn't leave 2022 without some thoughts.

How 2023 started. Could be a long one.

But then I turned on the TV and started watching Miley Cyrus' New Year's party, and as I did last year, I got hooked. It's sort of like NASCAR. I watch awaiting the big accident. Last year, it was a "wardrobe malfunction" that threw a significant portion of Miley's decolletage into the public eye. But it lacked the impact that it might have had in her Hannah Montana days -- after all, is there any part of Miley Cyrus that hasn't been seen by most of the world by now? It's the modern-day equivalent of the Pyramids of Giza. They've been out there for a long time, and nobody is making any efforts to hide them.

Amid those cheap thrills, I am trying to compose an end-of-year column. I got the idea as the news turned from bad to worse today with reports of the deaths of Pope Emeritus Benedict XVI and famed journalist Barbara Walters. I fully expected Fox News to blame both passings on the contents of Hunter Biden's laptop, but I don't watch Fox long enough in any one sitting to know for a fact that they didn't.

So this will probably make it to the Internet sometime in 2023, which is definitely when you will be reading it. Here we go.

This year will mark my 69th on this earth, which could be the springboard for a lot of jokes about how that's Rob Gronkowski's favorite number. I supposed I should expect that, but I just want to let my favorite tight end from the home of the best Buffalo wings I've ever had (Amherst, N.Y.) know that he won't make it to 69 if he keeps getting the itch to come back to the NFL after a few months of so-called retirement.

Please don't get this band back together.

Of course, there's a segment of Patriots fans out there that believes all of their ills can be cured if they can get Gronk and Tom Brady back in Foxboro for one last hurrah. Sure, let's convince Julian Edelman to return, too. And as if by magic, they all won't be old, perpetually injured and borderline decrepit like their former head coach, Bill Belichick, who refuses to acknowledge that the game is leaving him and his angry-old-man act behind.

Hey, we all change as we get older. I don't care for a lot of things any more that were once close to my heart and the focus of almost all of my energy. I don't care if the Patriots fall flat on their faces. They managed to avoid what happens to every other NFL team for more than 20 years. I was there for the best of it, and I'm glad I was. Now it's time for us to be reminded of how the other half lived.

Next Patriots' coach? Anyone but Steve Belichick or Matt Patricia.

This man hears dogs speaking to him.

Mac Jones is ruined, by the way. He should have taken a huge leap forward in his sophomore year, but then Belichick decided to put two clueless individuals in charge of his offense, they changed everything Mac had learned in his first year, and they forgot to build even a passable offensive line around him. No wonder the kid has more battle fatigue than the soldier that Gen. George Patton slapped in that field hospital almost 80 years ago.

Red Sox? More corporate malfeasance than Elon Musk's takeover of Twitter. I need say no more.

By the way, I will never buy a Tesla as long as Musk has anything to do with it. I want to eventually buy an electric before my driving days are done, but not if it enriches that looney tune any further. 

By the way, it's midnight. Jan. 1, 2023. Happy New Year, everyone. Start writing 2023 on your checks now.

Remember Y2K? Look at the world now and tell me the world didn't go bonkers since then. Must have been a delayed reaction. Otherwise, we would never have endured the shame of Donald Trump as our president.

Look, it's late and I'm an old man. I want to go to sleep. I have laundry to do tomorrow, I have to work on notes and rosters for the TV games I'll be calling in the next few weeks, and I was kinda hoping I could make a run to the nearest Arby's, which is about 45 miles away. But I do want to mention a few people here and wish them all the best in the year to come.

This is the most fun I've had in years.

Let's start with the best friends I'll ever have in this or any other existence, Alex Salachi (who works basketball games with me on cable TV) and Holly Grinnell. They are the salt of the earth. I also ran into a treasured friend and former co-worker, Peter Gobis, at a basketball game yesterday. We used to joke about who'd have the hardest time leaving our careers behind. The jury is still out.

I also had the privilege of working for another four years alongside good friend Glen Farley, albeit in a different media environment. It was a blast. And to that end, I thank the folks at North TV (Peter Gay and Chris Miller especially), Mansfield Cable Access (Jack O'Neill and Maureen O'Neill) and everyone at Foxboro Cable Access for letting me indulge myself in my desire to be a play-by-play announcer in the autumn of my years. Winter and spring, too!

I am the luckiest man in the world to call the games of so many talented young athletes, and I want them to know that, thanks to the inspiration of people to whom I listened for years (Curt Gowdy, Ned Martin, Johnny Most, Bob Wilson and the great Gil Santos at the top of that list), I want to do the best possible job I can to make their high school careers even more memorable.

So much more I could write, but it's time to take the nightly pills and everything else that is keeping me alive. Those of you that really know me know what I'd write about you, so rest assured that those feelings remain strong. 

And yes, this year's Miley show was better than last year's. 

And so, it's onward and upward. See you at a basketball game!