A thugged-out Hall and Oates?
The only successful Arab/Jew partnership since the dawn of human culture?
My funky, funky children, prepare to be musically sexed. And, oh yes, you will be sexed. Your toes will curl harder than you ever thought possible, and in the heat of raw, sweaty passion, you’ll scream out the name of the musicians responsible for making you all titillated and aroused: Chromeo. Shout it from the silk and velvet boudoir mountaintops, my brothers and sisters: Chromeo!

Their tale is as old as time. Actually, it’s as old as the first Bush administration. That’s when America got their first taste of The Casualties' sound. And if you’ve ever been bludgeoned repeatedly in the face by an 800-pound gorilla, then you know what The Casualties' sound is.
Just in time for your post-Valentine’s Day aggressions comes their latest SideOneDummy release, On The Front Line. Consider it a nice little declaration of sonic war.

I keep asking myself, "Why am I here? Why am I sitting on the edge of this big goddamned rock at the edge of the night with my feet dangling off into the shadowy unknown, staring for almost-- squinting now at the glowing green indicators on my watch-- three hours at the same subtle curvature of the Earth which once filled the eyepieces of countless pirates and explorers, brave souls now dead and double-parked on the bottom of the heaving deep blue below me; gazing like some moonstruck first year poetry student at the bristling white fur of the cosmic polar bear far above me?"

Vinnie’s Movie Review - This Month: Teabaggin
Over the years, Merchant Ivory Productions has taken the best in British cinema, and presented it to quality-starved American film audiences. But, since the tragic passing of both Alec Guinness and Peter Sellers, British cinema has lacked a real star for those same American audiences to latch on to. Until now.

Now, I have always been a voracious reader. Conversely, the number of books I would devour in a single week of my high school career rose in direct proportion to the new, mean low of pathetic sadness my social life could attain at any given moment. We'll call this: abject sorrow (a,s).

Why am I here? Too sober to forget, too drunk to drive. I hear you clicking away at your computer, undaunted by my presence on your couch.

I was jolted from my fitful slumber when six armed men wearing black uniforms kicked down my door and moved into the room in choreographed, crisscross patterns, covering each other in overlapping fields of fire. I was seized with fear, paralyzed with terror. No one said anything to me, but I knew exactly who they were and exactly what was happening.

Some people have the vision and all the skills it takes to compose and shape a release by themselves. Most people, however, really need the relationship that a band provides to transcend their own state of mind and create something truly new and exciting. Members of a band can use each other as sounding boards to find out what works best, to create music which they could not possibly create on their own. And while people may not always agree with the direction things are going, it is important to not create in a vacuum. Not everyone can make an enjoyable album entirely on their own.

The man listened both impatiently and with intent. He listened, but there was no answer. He lay quietly, and dialed her other number. This was now the third call he had placed within the last minute. Usually, the man tried to avoid the telephone; there was something about it that seemed impersonal to him.

They had just three days to learn everything about each other. It was ridiculous, but love doesn't let you think rationally. It blocks any fleeting thought of what might happen, and just concentrates on the rapture you're experiencing at that very moment.
Three days.
In three days he found out that she likes to belt out Journey in the shower and hates to wear underwear. In three days she found out that Hollywood makes him nervous, and he suffers from a slight case of Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder.