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Source: chillhour.com

Does she actually own shirts anymore? We could pretend to be shocked that Rihanna is posing topless in the pages of Esquire UK , but that would be a lie.

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From left, Anja Rubik at the Met Gala, Anne V at the Grammys, and Gwyneth Paltrow posing for Harper's Bazaar.

What do all these three ladies have in common? Legs that work overtime, yes, but also: hips that do lie. Infinity thighs ending in hips that jut out from evening gowns via insanely high slits. This is not a work of witchcraft, however — there is a real man behind those naked-yet-not-naked hips and his name is Anthony Vaccarello. He is a designer, and his signature thing are these evening gowns with seemingly impossible side slit engineering and asymmetrical openings. They're Tarzan's Jane costumes but... tailored — and priced at a few thousand dollars a pop.

I asked a red carpet celebrity stylist friend how Anja Rubik might have managed to wear that white slashed gown to the Met Gala without flashing anyone. I figured these things have to either have a built in pair of panties or some really magical styling tape. The stylist said, "I asked my friend who went to the Met [Gala] if she saw anything? And she said the dress was constructed with something inside it. So essentially: strategic design."

Vaccarello's clothes aren't for sale in many places in this country, but you can find a plentiful assortment at the Just One Eye boutique in L.A. Among their stock are two dresses with slits as high as Gwneyth Paltrow and model Anne V's in the above photos. The description of one such $3,950 dress sort of explains how these super-high slits manage not to reveal vagina:

This sensual piece features an adjustable halter strap at neck, black panel over one side at chest, deep V-neckline, cut-out at side and high-cut leg hole at one side with a gold buckle detail at top. With fabric wrapping around covered leg, exposed zip-fastening at back and partially concealed internal black elastic bands for structure and security.

So it sounds like these dresses actually have leg holes, the way shorts do. As shocking as they are, they're pretty fun to look at, so you keep on cutting things up and defying clothing logic, Anthony Vaccarello. Show dresses what they can do! Though if you want to sell things to women who aren't built like models you might at least start playing with more mesh insets, or something.

Anthony Vaccarello appears with Anja Rubik at the end of his fall 2012 fashion show in Paris in February.

(Reuters / BENOIT TESSIER)

(Reuters / MIKE STONE)

The Spurs are our basketball Kennedys, minus the tragedy. They're our basketball Bushes, except smarter. They're our basketball Coppolas, but less pretentious. What I'm getting at here: the Spurs are the Illuminati.

As a franchise, San Antonio has been magnificently competent from generation to generation; the team constantly waits in the wings, ready to destroy any and all upstarts. Of course, they don't win the championship every year, because that would be impossible, but even when they don't, they influence the turn of events, snagging the #1 seed or looming large on the road to the title. Regardless of the individual flavors that the Miami Heat and Oklahoma City Thunder, this year's NBA darlings, happen to represent, both teams exist in the same realm of newness, fresh to the party, still trying to get the feel of their entitlement. The Spurs have known that status for decades, and the insane and unflagging steadiness with which San Antonio has operated over the course of the franchise's history should be the model for every professional sports team in existence. I mean, just consider this: they've only missed the playoffs four times since 1976, when they joined the NBA.

How have they done this? Well, first off, they're the Illuminati, and THEY CAN SEE EVERYTHING.

I don't think they can actually see everything. But like the Illuminati, the Spurs seem to exist in the background of the league every year: they're "boring," they're subtle, they dominate quietly and with little fanfare. They have a similar color scheme. (If you think it's a coincidence that Jay-Z stole the Spurs colors for the Brooklyn Nets, THINK AGAIN.) The operative idea here is that, despite being perpetually under the radar, and in large part because they dominated the post-Jordan aughts — one of the league's least visible eras — San Antonio's influence seems weirdly small and diffuse, even though it isn't.

Basketballwise, they've done this by having the best coach in basketball (Gregg Popovich), two of the best big men of all time (David Robinson and Tim Duncan), tremendous guards (Tony Parker and Manu Ginobili), and a constantly refreshed and updated cast of supporting characters (Steve Kerr to Stephen Jackson to Bruce Bowen to Gary Neal, among many others). Part of building a dynasty — part of never seeing a gap in your success — is being lucky as hell, and like a family without a single off-generation, the Spurs fortuitously netted Tim Duncan just when things could've turned south.

Inserting the Spurs into the Thunder-Heat narrative mucks it up in all the right ways. We adore OKC as front-office savvy at its sexiest and most effective, the sports equivalent of a peerless tech startup. In fact, it's the Spurs who define business-like hyperefficiency, and they've been doing it forever. We begrudgingly hate the Heat for their success, and revel in their inability to conquer Earth, even though, for all we know, we're better off under their reign. In fact, the Spurs are the superpower, the axis on which the world twirls, their influence immutable felt in all of our living rooms. To love the Thunder is to love the Spurs, and to hate the Heat is to hate the Spurs. Only the anomalous kids, hating OKC for the way their gears sometimes grind together, loving the Heat for how beautifully they play the game of basketball, truly understand San Antonio.

Considering our desire as a country for goats to hate and underdogs to admire, it's no wonder the the Spurs so consistently fly under the radar — nobody truly cares to see them suffer, and they haven't been an underdog in generations, yet never grow ostentatious enough to work on the other side of this narrative. In a country that tries to pretend it lacks royalty — that acts like dynasties don't exist — the Spurs are the champions we truly deserve: manicured, established, and untouchable.

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She's small! She's hot! And, she's a natural redhead!

The Redhead is a Wendy's coffee.

Source: reddit.com

This 2012 photography project by Tadao Cern essentially involved placing more than one hundred willing participants in front of a giant wind cannon, and then taking some very unflattering, very high resolution photographs of their faces. And, well...

The results are glorious.

Source: facebook.com

Source: facebook.com

Source: facebook.com

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The oldest piece of tech I use is a cable. I'm fairly sure it came with my roommate's now-dead 4th generation iPod, the glowing blue click wheel one, which he would have bought in 2004, when Bush was in his first term and computer nerds were still excited about the Pentium 4. The only other eight-year-old gadget I have — a DVD player with a three-disc carousel — is sitting in a closet. I doubt it still powers up. The cable, though, snaps into the base of my iPhone 4S without a fight. It charges like new.

The iPhone dock connector has been a remarkably persistent standard in an industry defined by a lack of persistent standards, and kept alive by a company known for flaunting them. The first dock connector appeared in the 2003 iPod — before that, iPods used Firewire — and has been there ever since, in almost every iPod, every iPhone, and every iPad.

Via: ifixit.com

Since 2004, when Apple switched the dock connector's power rail from Firewire to USB, it hasn't changed much — a few of its 30 pins have assigned or reassigned new jobs, like video transfer, but a cable from 2004 can still charge and sync a device sold today, at the very least. The biggest change has been feel: the early dock connector had a mechanical locking system to prevent the plug from slipping out, which gave it a satisfying CLICK. The last few generations of dock connector operate more smoothly, but the action is still unique: less resistant than a USB port, yet more mechanical.

Every big gadget company has tried a proprietary port at some point, but nearly all have given up. They've since congregated around the same standard — and in Europe, legally mandated — MicroUSB port for charging and syncing. MicroUSB ports are almost apologetically small, and placed on smartphones as if as an afterthought, often on the side or top, near the headphone jack. Sometimes they even get a small plastic flap, ostensibly for protection from dust but, spiritually, I think, as a human-like expression of modesty. Ports, mechanical or otherwise, are unseemly.

Apple's port, on the other hand, dominates half of the bottom face of the iPhone, a lone, gaping reminder that this otherwise seamless device is still just a messy bundle of copper, steel, plastic and wires. A peek into an iPhone or iPod's dock connector is the easiest way to guess its age — dust and scum accumulates gradually, like floating trash in the phone design's only eddy. In form, the cable harks back to Apple's long-passed white plastic era, and can almost look out of place strung between a brushed aluminum MacBook and a black glass iPhone. (Apple's once-total white aesthetic lives mainly in wire form, in sync cables, laptop chargers, and earbuds.)

Now, for the first time, it looks like it's going to change. The next generation of iPhone is rumored to have a much smaller dock connector that would fully break compatibility for the first time in eight years. The dock connector as we know it is on deathwatch.

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An underground scene exists for everything these days, and the perfume world is no exception. A cult obsessives (many with blogs, obviously) pore over packaging, complexity and "sillage." (Which, I learned, is the trail left behind by a scent — as in, if you're in an elevator and you notice some girl reeks, you'd say her perfume has maximum sillage.) The appeal of niche perfume transcends the scent itself — it's about smelling like no one else, and knowing that you own a product made in a small, hand-crafted batch using real botanicals and essences rather than the phthalates and synthetic chemicals found in mainstream perfumes. So, onto the sniff test!

Behold: The BuzzFeed Perfume Sampling Party

None of us are perfume connoisseurs — I'm probably the only tester in the bunch who could tell you what "sillage" means because I was tasked with writing this post. So we judged each scent with our visceral reactions. Like normal people instead of perfume people. And we agreed surprisingly easily: any exclamation of "pretty!" was a thumbs up. Any crinkling of the nose followed by a "hmmm..." or an outright "ew" was usually a mutually agreed upon thumbs down.

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