Nomaan Merchant, sports writer:

A bumbling Kazakh journalist who misleads unsuspecting Americans into doing ill-advised or downright stupid things on camera, Borat caused an almost unprecedented cultural storm in the States. Borat, played by British comedian Sacha Baron Cohen, got us to stop worrying about terrorism, oil prices and bungled wars for a second by discussing among other things the, ahem, “testicular virility” of his son Hooeylewis. And more importantly, Borat made us laugh at ourselves. He helped bring people of different backgrounds together by making fun of everyone. I watched the movie on opening night with an old friend from high school who is, by his own admission, extremely Jewish. But when Borat declares the problems in his country are “economic, social and Jew,” my friend was laughing the loudest in the theater. Indeed, Cohen’s parody of America was this year’s “great success.”

(Read our review of Borat, which called the film more a “portrayal of America’s problems than any documentary of this decade.”)

Rachel Koontz, fiction writer:

You know you’re not listening to a typical love song when the lyrics drawl, “Sit and think, drown and drink / Sing this sad song / You can bring me flowers baby / When I’m dead and gone.” Such is the emotional core of folk artist Ray LaMontagne and the lyrics on his second album, Till the Sun Turns Black : more raw, more searching, and more soulful than ever before. The album is charged with an instrumentally-demanding and diverse set of songs, and LaMontagne’s weary, haunted voice echoes a more complex sound. Every song leaves you sorrowful, but trembling for more.

Hillary Proctor, On Campus editor:

The sultry beat and contagious hook of Nelly Furtado and Timbaland’s summer pop hit added a new word to our collective musical vocabulary: During the summer of 2006, everything was “promiscuous.” The word peppered daily conversation, party themes and Facebook statuses. Fergie even responded to the word’s popularity by denying her own promiscuity in “Fergalicious” (another 2006 pop landmark). The rest of the lyrics are clever, too, referencing everything from poetry (“Roses are red/Some diamonds are blue/Chivalry is dead/But you’re still kinda cute”) to professional sports (“Is your game M.V.P. like Steve Nash?”). NBN staffer Jason Plautz and I were particularly enamored with this song, probably more so than most. Fortunately, it came on the radio at least every 8.5 minutes whenever we were in the car together over the summer. “Promiscuous” was more than a song: It was a concept. Being promiscuous let girls strike just the right balance between shy and slutty, and although “Promiscuous” was undeniably overplayed, 2006 would not have been the same without it.

Spencer Kornhaber, managing editor:

More than global warming, the prospect of a draft, Mark Foley or Mel Gibson, Facebook’s addition of the news feed outraged the youth of America. For a while, it looked like news feed would be our Vietnam War, Mark Zuckerberg our Lyndon B. Johnson, Ben Parr our Jane Fonda. But then we got kind of used to it, left our protest groups, and secretly started liking it. Now, instead of spending wasted but satisfying hours pouring over our “My Friends” page digging for recent updates, we spend a mere 30 seconds glancing at our home page to see all of our friend’s breakups, shack-ups and decisions about whether or not they like Garden State. Also, news feed is also going to put all journalists out of work. So 2006.

Tom Giratikanon, editor-in-chief:

Born out of the doodles in his school notebooks, Munroe’s thrice-weekly Web comic has become the true spiritual successor to Calvin & Hobbes: a startlingly incisive comic about ourselves and what the hell we spend all our time doing. Just as Bill Watterson’s comic made sense of a complex world through toboggan rides in the woods, xkcd manages to strip down technology to its fundamentally human roots. It’s a reflection of his sincerity that Munroe brings the sweetness without the sap and the satire without the cruelty, and still knows what every LiveJournal user is thinking. Unlike Watterson though, Munroe lives and breathes science (he worked at NASA before quitting to draw full-time), so the strip ends up being both a critique of and a tribute to the culture of nerds, blowhards and artists that the Internet has allowed to flourish.

Jason Plautz, Politics editor:

Borat made headlines for its political incorrectness, but it wasn’t even the best at that game. Thank You for Smoking took a scathing look at the tobacco industry and lobbying at large. Borat’s hilarity came from the clueless incorrectness of its protagonist and the obscene statements of average Americans, but Smoking is wickedly funny from its pure depravity. Aaron Eckhart stars as Nick Naylor, possibly the worst protagonist of the year. In his quest to make cigarettes cool again, he brags about how many deaths the tobacco industry causes every year, relishes in taking down health advocates and confronts a boy with cancer on national television. You almost feel bad about laughing at the jokes, but the clever writing and crisp editing make not laughing impossible. That’s not to mention the spot-on performances from the seemingly infinite cast (hey isn’t that William H. Macy? That guy from Anchorman? Suri’s mom?). Rob Lowe steals the show; his Hollywood super-agent reminds us why The West Wing started to suck when he left. In a year dominated by the midterm election campaigns, Smoking was a refreshing political comedy that skewered those iniquitous lobbyists.

Paul Schrodt, lead Web designer:

Sofia Coppola’s Marie Antoinette captured the spirit of film culture in 2006. It was a year of directors with distinctive styles—auteurs in film terms—taking their favorite tropes to new, glorious heights. Coppola just got the most bad press for it. She refused the expected historical bio pic for a two-hour tone poem that lavished gorgeous attention on her favorite subject: the tormented little rich girl who stays cooped up in her room. (Watch her sleep. Watch her eat. Watch her shop.)

The same can be said about movies made by Michael Mann (Miami Vice, which resisted plot for gloomy nighttime photography of badasses driving fast cars), David Lynch (Inland Empire, his explosive, avant-garde remix of his favorite surrealistic flashes) and Michel Gondry (The Science of Sleep, which finally ditched Charlie Kaufman scripts for his own brand of scatterbrained dream-making).

All these directors did their work—and moviegoers—well by trading expectation for personal satisfaction. Their movies become more challenging and divisive, but also more heartfelt. Critics gave Mann flak for the extended romantic interlude between Colin Farrell and Gong Li, but this quietly sexy sequence relished in the ecstatic romanticism that has always been buried underneath the action set pieces in Mann classics like Heat. Even M. Night Shyamalan went out on a limb with his batty fairy tale Lady in the Water, which was summarily shut down by confused reviewers. Critics says this year marks the beginning of the death of film culture. Not if you knew where to look.

(Read our reviews of Marie Antoinette and The Science of Sleep.)

Dagny Salas, copy and photo editor:

In a city ruled by a love for the beach, the look of the moment, and Dolphins football, Miami Heat fans weren’t ever given much to believe in. This history included sequential bitter playoff losses to the rival Knicks in the late 1990s; the loss of Zo’s kidney and Coach Pat Riley to early retirement; and going up 3-2 against the Pistons in 2005 only to lose Game 7 at home.

But in the meantime, the Heat had drafted Wade, traded for Shaq, acquired Williams-Walker-Payton-Posey, and Zo and Riley came back. The 05-06 team suffered major chemistry problems and a coaching change midseason, but when things gelled in the playoffs, the Heat got past the rival Pistons and surged against the seemingly superior Mavericks.

I was at Game 3, in the 8th row with my dad, when the Heat made their terrific comeback, down 13 in the 4th and down 2 in the series.

Wade kept making shot after ridiculous shot and the Heat got some stops on the defensive end and people started standing and cheering and believing. Then, with 9.3 seconds left in the game, Gary Payton shot a sweet little jumper from inside the arc to give the Heat a 97-95 lead. The arena exploded into ecstatic chaos as people became full-fledged converts of the dream. The white seat covers were projected up into the air like confetti at the biggest party in town.

Watching the DVD of the game, I can see myself react to the shot, fists pumping the air, my smile as wide as the Port of Miami, probably screaming “OH MY GOD! WE ARE DOING IT!” The arena was so loud, you couldn’t hear even the referee’s whistle.

The Heat went on to win Game 3, Game 4, Game 5 and Game 6 to take the series, win the championship, and exorcise their demons. This was huge for a team that had never been respected in the city enamored with itself and the sea, still stuck in the days of 1972 and Dan Marino.

Best of all? We finally got the championship parade down Biscayne Boulevard, just like Riley promised all those years ago. An estimated 250,000 people showed up, packing the streets of downtown Miami on a sweltering summer day.

Now, for the Heat, you can spell “respect” C-H-A-M-P-I-O-N-S.

2006, one for the books.