A rough translation from an Italian news story from last September:

The father Pasquale is already under trial, accused of having illegally appropriated almost a half a billion lire when he was the judicial administrator of a private company in a tourist development. The trial finished in April 2005 with the Pasquale being sentenced to three years in prison and blocked forever from serving in public office.

The father and son team of Catholic property sharks caught the attention of the media, and the younger Follieri's world began to unravel. Today's charges may be the first step towards following his father into prison.

The main beneficiary of this whole mess: former Gawker writer Josh Stein, who has a big story coming up in Page Six Magazine about Follieri. He's been working on it for a while, and he couldn't have timed it better.

The Gramercy Park Hotel's super-exclusive private roof club:

The space consists of a few drawing rooms crammed with Damien Hirst paintings, ringed by a large terra cotta patio.

The Spotted Pig's super-exclusive third floor:

This exclusive apartment is ironically small and simple, housing a tiny open kitchen, a sofa, two long tables, and two fridges. 'One is stocked with beer,' says a regular.

Cipriani's super-exclusive upstairs:

In the words of one habitue, a 26-year-old model, it's filled with 'slimy guys who want to hang out with younger women.'

The super-exclusive "underground" club called Upstairs:

'Patrons ascend a set of stairs, walk down a graffiti-lined hallway past the bathrooms, and open a door into the club itself. It's really one of the least stylized nightclubs ever.' Upstairs is a sparse, cheaply furnished room with banquettes lining the wall and utilitarian lighting.

One day, baby. One day.

[Joshua David Stein]

This article might have been a reflection of the cost of compulsive indiscretion; I suspect, however, that it will merely broadcast the humiliation of Josh Stein, Leon Neyfakh and other former boyfriends to a larger audience and at greater length. Don't feel too sorry for Stein, however. He already wrote his own piece on "the dangers of blogger love" in Page Six Magazine. Gould and Stein—the web equivalent of the vicious couple of Who's Afraid Of Virginia Woolf?—have created a small-scale publishing industry out of mutual abuse. The cover story in the Times Magazine is its biggest hit yet.

• Tudors hottie Jonathan Rhys Meyers has entered an undisclosed treatment facility. "He felt a break was needed in order to maintain his recovery," says his rep. "What! What was he addicted to, beauty?" asks our Josh Stein. No Josh: Alkie-hol. That's why he was so fun! [People]
  
• The Sheryl Crow concert rider on The Smoking Gun would seem to indicate that the singer has a rather large carbon footprint. But her rep tells Page Six that the document's "an old one from 10 years ago." Her current tour bus probably runs on recycled fryolator grease or something. [Page Six]
  
• Also, do she and Laurie David secretly hate each other? [Gatecrasher]
  
• Martha Stewart has her priorities in order. "Any man hoping to please her better like cats. After her divorce, one would-be suitor 'sat down in a wing chair in my parlor and, all of sudden, there were six cats sitting all over him.... He said, 'I hate cats.' ... I didn't see him again.' [R&M, 2nd item]

...made up of real stories by real people. Our editorial mission: to explore today's world by discovering individuals whose extraordinary life stories intersect with a given topic—and to invite them to tell those stories themselves. No journalists, no middleman. Topic gets its material straight from the people who have lived it.

Okay, I admit it. I had no clue what Topic magazine was until Thursday, when I asked out loud what the fuck Topic magazine was. Joshua, our in-house jokester, casually mentioned he was a senior editor there and that I should accept the release party invitation that spawned the original query. Somewhat embarrassed, I RSVP'd and carted Kate over to The Beatrice Inn because, more than anything else, I wanted to see what a "hipsteraunt" looks like. Additionally, I wanted to see what people who hung out at a "hipsteraunt" look like. Unlike earlier, I found out fairly quickly:

• 1. A "hipsteraunt" looks like my ex-boyfriend's parent's basement, which means it's awesome for clandestine hookups, not so good for masses of people or those with tendencies toward claustrophobia;
  
• 2. People who hang out in "hipsteraunts" are fairly attractive, if not fairly forgettable. It's no Misshapes. Oh, wait:
  
  Never mind. Moving on...

  Locating Josh, the only person I know in the room, I am directed to people we should talk to: Marty Reisman, a septuagenarian ping-pong player with a decidedly melancholy disposition, David Haskell, the EIC of Topic, and some pretty girls who I fail to note the names of (because if there's anything I'm good at, it's not writing down people's names. That whole Yara Flinn thing? Totally a fluke, people.) As usual, I'm more interested in the open Dewar's bar, and Kate is more interested in taking pictures of awkward interactions and semi-amusing performances of Twister:
  
  (Nice ass, dude.) Flipping through my complimentary issue of Topic, I mentally note some things I will read the following morning whilst moderately hungover - Marty's life as a ping-pong champion, a girl whose sister shot her boyfriend and gave her name when she got arrested for it, that pretty Cara girl from The Real World who failed to receive Hasselbeck-type fame from her reality television stint. I also score a pack of playing cards designed just for Topic, featuring the faces of Amy Sohn (!) and David Cross (!!) and at that point, I think "HOLY SHIT, maybe they'll turn up and I can earn some gold stars for my performance chart back at the office. And until they turn up, I'm going to play me some Twister." That fun lasts approximately fourteen minutes, at which point I realize I'm not as flexible as I'd like to believe. I retire to being the person that spins the wheel, which becomes tiresome. I think I should go talk to some people because I am, in some sense, working. I ignore the fact that my heart is beating a little irregularly, that it's hot and sort of hard to breathe, a situation I think will be cured by another trip to the bar.

  It is not.
  
  You see, if there were more unfortunately dressed people here, I could have stuck out the rapid onset of claustrophobia by making fun of them. If David Cross were here, I could have ignored my arrhythmia in lieu of making a total fool of myself. If Amy Sohn were here, I could attempt to get some sort of embarrassing vagina quote or something. But none of those people are here, and I'm in full panic attack mode. I need to get the hell out of here - fast. Collecting Kate, I manage to have a somewhat inept interaction with a really cute boy as I'm gathering my bags. I think to myself, "Wow, Heather, you really suck at life these days." And this thought crosses my mind later on, when I hear the sad news that David Cross AND Claire Danes showed up almost immediately after we left so alas, no pictures of them.

  Damn those celebrities and their fashionably late entrances.

  Topic Magazine Release Party [Photos]