For the past year, New Times staffers and freelancers have sacrificed themselves for you. They’ve eaten the best pizza. They’ve logged their time at stellar art shows, plays, music venues. They’ve become barflies at strip joints and coffeehouses. They’ve paddled the coolest kayak trips and hiked the top trails. So now, after 12 months of grueling work, we serve up to you about 200 of the best people, places, and events in Broward and Palm Beach counties. Enjoy. As for us? We’ll start again tomorrow, dear readers.

Hollywood Boulevard boasts about a thousand little cafés, supercute boutiques, and squeaky clean bar/restaurants. But where do the bad­asses go? This week, I ventured south in an attempt to find some laid-back bars — and came upon a gothic, low-lit ex-biker bar and an Irish pub named after a field hurler whose nickname was "The Rattler." I will never be a badass, but who's to say I can't drink with 'em?

 Octopus's Garden: "Johnny Cash was a badass," said Stacy, who was perched beside me at Octopus's Garden's small, black-granite-topped bar. She paused, listening to "Cocaine Blues," which was playing overhead.

" 'Took a shot of cocaine and shot my woman down,' " she quoted. "Damn. What a badass." 

"I think it's fair," remarked Steve, the broad, burly guy next to her, who was obviously vying to get in her pants. He wore an Australianish straw safari hat. "You women have been killing us for years."

"True," Stacy contemplated. "Well... as long as we're still ahead."

The Octopus's Garden is a small, dark Hollywood Boulevard bar that used to cater to bikers and now just caters to the local toughs. The walls are painted a deep red, the ceiling black, and the general décor is akin to the kitsch you might find in a teenaged Satanist's bedroom. Small chainlinks line the dark mirrors; blue electric lamps dance from the black shelving behind the bar; a small stage with a "Legends of Rock" poster sits vacant in the corner.

Stacy's vibrant burgundy hair fell from underneath a stylish fedora; a metal skull necklace dangled over her clavicle. She wore black-rimmed glasses and loved every classic song that came on (at one point, she went to an undisclosed location to turn up Tom Petty), but even drunk, she was a badass and whip-smart to boot. ("I'm only Irish by injection," she told Steve, who'd commented on her red hair. "Meaning, I've had Irish in me before, but it's not genetic.") I kind of loved her.

"What about peace and love and all that shit?" she was now saying to Steve, who was falling out of her favor quicker than a bungee-jumping elephant.

"I love peace and love," he said. "They're two of my favorite things."

He paused. "Well, peace, love, and also maple syrup."

Voodoo, the tattooed bartender, refilled Stacy and Steve's beer bucket and munched happily on chicken that someone had brought him from a nearby wing spot. He wore several rainbow-colored, threaded bracelets and seemed to generally enjoy eavesdropping on the weird banter of his patrons.

"So, why do they call you Voodoo?" I asked.

"Well, my first nickname was Sex Shop," he said. "I used to work at one, and the name stuck."

"That is an awful name," I sympathized.

"Yeah, while I was working as a bar back at Coyote Ugly, one of the dance trainers  came in and told me I needed a new nickname," he said. "I was christened Voodoo. It stuck. And it worked out well." He pointed at a giant poster on the wall that featured swirls, skulls, and general Ed Hardyish faux tough-guy artistry. At the top of the print was the word Voodoo.

"Nice," I said. "So tell me about the bar."

"We have live music, draw a local crowd," he said. "Karaoke is our worst night."

"That's because our karaoke guy kinda sucks," said Stacy. "I've done every song he has and am so over it. But this is a great place." She looked down at her drink. "Though it wouldn't hurt if drinks were cheaper."

"You guys want to hear a joke?" Steve asked. "It's basically the story of my life."

"Uh-oh," I said.

"So, an old sailor decides to get a prostitute," Steve began. "They're fucking, and during intercourse, he asks her, 'How am I doing, baby?' "

" 'You're doing three knots,' the hooker answered. 'Three knots?' the sailor asked, confused. 'Yeah — you're not hard, you're not in me, and you're not getting your money back.' "

"Here's a fourth 'not,' " said Stacy. "We're not going to hear any more jokes like that."

  Mickey Byrne's: Allow me to be utterly honest: I mispronounced Mickey Byrne to the first bartender I came upon — Gary, who had a goatee, a sexy accent, and an eyebrow ring. He delicately corrected me and gave me a bit o' history about the bar and its famous Irish hurler namesake. Unfortunately, I wasn't much listening because I was more interested in recovering from my pronunciation faux pas. Hey, I'm only Irish by injection.  

"Byrne was one of Tipperary's greatest hurlers," Gary told me. (I thought "hurling" was what people did when they drank too much, but it turns out, it's also a great Irish field sport.) "His nickname was 'The Rattler.' "

Mickey's notable specials include Beer-and-Burger Mondays (a pint of beer and a hamburger for $10); Pie-and-a-Pint Tuesdays (a pint of beer and shepherd's pie for $13); and Yuengs and Wings Thursdays ($7 Yuengling pitchers and 35-cent wings).

"Are you from Ireland?" I asked Gary.

"Yes," he said. "But I like it here much more."

"Are you kidding?" I asked.

"No! It's nice maybe two weeks a year there," he said. "It's too cold, too windy, and too rainy. But here..."

"It's none of those things, basically ever?" I volunteered.

"Exactly!"

"I do have one accolade for this bar already," I told Gary. "It's damned hot outside, and this is the coldest place I've been all day."

"Worth coming in for our air conditioning alone," Gary said.  

Mickey Byrne's is a "real" Irish pub, with a long wooden bar, framed portraits of Irish athletes — engaged in field hockey, football, boxing, track — and plenty of British brews on tap (Guinness, Harp, Carlsberg, Smithwick, etc.). The spot boasts dartboards, a pool table, and the usual beer signs, plus a hilarious poster that reads "Irish yoga." Beneath those words is a picture of three Irishmen, all passed out in various uncomfortable positions, booze bottles littered all around their bent bodies.

A patron named Tom — who was watching European football on TV — declared that he had lived in London for two years. "I can say with authority that this is a very authentic pub."

"I'd like to go to London," I said with a sigh of wanderlust. 

"There are pubs on every corner there," Tom said. "But — that's because there's nothing better to do over there. The weather is awful. Also, the people are miserable. My English friends come here and are shocked at how friendly the people are."

I almost burst out laughing. "Have they ever been up to Boca?"

"Seriously," Tom said. "They're surprised when waitresses actually ask how they're doing. It kind of freaks them out."

After Mickey's, I was pretty sloshed, so I decided it was time to go home. One day, when I grow up, I'm gonna learn to hold my liquor. Then maybe I'll finally achieve the coveted rank of badass, currently held by biker bar babes, tattooed bartenders named Voodoo, and basically anyone of hard-drinkin' Irish descent.

 

Did you doubt Ricky Williams? Back in 2004, did you call him selfish? Did you burn a jersey or smash a bobblehead? Did you mock him for his personal problems? Ricky said he needed to find himself. He retired and moved to a tent in the Australian outback. He enrolled in a holistic medicine school, studied Hinduism in India, taught yoga in a California ashram, and played a season with the Toronto Argonauts. Then he came back. In 2008, he teamed with Ronnie Brown to form the "Wildcat" offense, which stunned defensive coordinators around the league. Then in 2009, when Brown went down and with a first-year starter playing quarterback, Ricky once again carried the Dolphins on his shoulders. He set an NFL record for longest span between 1,000-yard seasons at six years. Now he's one of the longest-tenured Dolphins, just a few hundred yards shy of the franchise rushing record. He won't play much longer, though — he wants to attend medical school. And if you think Ricky won't be a doctor, you've learned nothing. Don't doubt Ricky Williams.

Have you ever been eating something that tasted OK — except for one ingredient that completely dominated the flavor? Maybe the recipe contained capers or mayonnaise or sardines. You know the whole thing would be better if only you could take that shit out, if you could go back in time and never put it in. Those salty capers, that oily mayo, those slimy little fish — that's what Joey Porter was to the Dolphins' defense last year. Let's not mention the fights he got into with both teammates and opponents, the fact that he proudly carries a gun he calls "my little buddy," that he was once shot in the ass, that his dogs allegedly killed a horse, or that within three weeks of the Dolphins' cutting him, Porter was arrested for a DUI in Arizona. Purely from a football standpoint, the Dolphins defense is faster, smarter, and hungrier without Porter. Get used to hearing the name Karlos Dansby.

Yes, he's had his share of off-the-court drama: the messy divorce, the horribly ill-advised business dealings, the legendary partying. And yes, he comes with all the distractions of a superstar: the occasional one-on-one with President Obama, the months training for and playing in the Olympics, the sweet courting whispers from every intelligent GM and coach in the league. And it's true, without another superstar to work with, the team hasn't had a whiff of a second championship. But make no mistake: Professional basketball in South Florida begins and ends, and rises and falls, with Dwyane Wade.

No hockey player feels the shame of a losing franchise like the goalie. This season, the Panthers missed the playoffs for an NHL-record tenth consecutive year, and their struggles obscured what could have been a sterling season for Tomas Vokoun. In 2009-10, the 33-year-old Czech netminder posted a .925 save percentage, the third-best mark in the league. The save percentage is the statistic that will tell you the most about the quality of the goaltender, and it demonstrates how frequently a low-scoring Panther club remained competitive thanks to Vokoun's heroics. Yet the other statistics show just how futile those efforts were: Vokoun lost 28 games ­— tied for most in the league. Considering how the Panthers' front office blundered by losing top defenseman Jay Bouwmeester the previous year to free agency, that shouldn't be a surprise. Even though Vokoun saved most of the shots that came his way, the Panthers allowed so many shots to get near him in the first place that they essentially lost a numbers game. Whatever is wrong with the Panthers franchise, it's not Vokoun's fault. He's the one cat who deserves to hold his head high.

Most of the überwealthy don't bother to drain their pools when they go north for the summer, which means their onyx and ultramarine oases are ours for the backstroking. Like the famous character in the John Cheever story "The Swimmer," with a little planning, a person in reasonably good shape could practically swim the length of the island in, say, August, when even hired caretakers are narcoleptic with heat. Many mansions are best approached from the beach (hint: The north end of the island is all but fence-free), eliminating the problem of where to park if you lack a sticker. A dip in some absent playboy's pampered pond, surrounded by Grecian statuary, makes a satisfying way to slough off an afternoon's beach sand. Advanced skinny-dippers will want to cabana-crash under cover of darkness. For best results, keep plunges brief to stay one dive ahead of the cops. And if you do get caught, put on your thickest prep-school intonations and ask if you can place your phone call to "Aunt Lilly" or "Uncle Donald."

Yeah, he took it easy after he kicked that ball into left field and dissed Freddy Gonzalez a little, but that can't offset the greatness of Hanley. Ultimately he apologized, and the team was better off for it. Can't a superstar get a diva moment once a season or so? Sure he can. And Ramirez is a superstar, one of those rare instant Hall of Famers that any fan is lucky to get a chance to watch on a nightly basis. How many guys in baseball might give you 200 hits, 30 home runs, 100 RBIs, 125 runs, and 50 stolen bases and hit better than .340? Only one — and his initials are H.R. (OK, he probably won't be getting 50 steals again, but he did it in '06.) Last year, he won the batting title and was the runner-up in MVP voting. Oh, and he plays a pretty mean shortstop. It's true he's gotten off to a slow start this year, but Hanley told us not to worry about him. I think we can handle that. (Runner-up: Josh Johnson, a guy who always reminds you why they call it the big leagues.)

The HRPC, hidden just off Stirling Road behind a chainlink fence, looks more like an old Moose Lodge than a modern gun club. The range is all outdoors, and there's no air conditioning. Shooters have to walk out to their targets, which are hoisted on poles affixed to old tires. The PA system is crackly, and the buildings look like they've been around for decades (they have). But what the place lacks in amenities it makes up for in character. Its members are a tight-knit group, just as likely to crack jokes with you as help you improve your aim. They hold friendly, competitive matches on most weekends, often culminating in a lunchtime barbecue and cookout complete with cold brews (no drinking on the range, though). And as far as heritage goes, the club has plenty. It's been around since 1935 and was once presided over by former Hollywood Commissioner and businessman Charles Barney Smith (for whom C.B. Smith Park is named). Even more telling, its last surviving original member, T.C. Rossman, passed away early this year. He was still shooting. It may not be the most state-of-the-art facility, but the HRPC is as much a part of South Florida history as a gun club can get.

Find the "start" sign and dash past the kids' playground, the families picnicking under the pavilions, and the young men playing basketball on the court. Fly past the quarter-mile marker, through the trees and manicured foliage. Pass the tennis lessons and benches and outdoor gym stations (chin-ups, anyone?). Gasping, you'll stumble upon the half-mile marker and jog past the gigantic amphitheater. Keep going, past the aquatic center and, surely, several groups of speed-walking women. The three-quarter mark looms ahead! Stagger past it and walk, panting deeply and limping painfully, back to the start sign. Congratulations! You ran a mile and were so busy observing all the other shit going on around Pompano Community Park that you didn't even have a heart attack! Now, collapse under a pavilion; maybe someone will offer you a hot dog.