Usually low-profile HBO chief Chris Albrecht is hiding out at home in Los Angeles, and has not been charged after his weekend visit to a Las Vegas jail. Police officers said that they saw him involved in some manner of fisticuffs (or at least a misunderstanding) with his girlfriend at the MGM Grand's valet parking. (We prefer to rumble at New York, New York.) We're looking forward to Albrecht's lawsuit against the Las Vegas Tourism board regarding their "What Happens In Vegas, Stays In Vegas" slogan, which has now proven to be a complete and total lie. His girlfriend won't be pressing charges, but two cops say they saw "evidence of battery." HBO has said nothing.

We secretly feared that we'd return from our all-too-brief vacation to find the entire landscape of brain-smoothing tabloid gossip rendered unrecognizable by a new cast of characters spawned in the week between Christmas and New Year's Day, but luckily for us, Hollywood's Celebutard Continuity Department was hard at work ensuring that the earliest moments of 2007 were nearly indistinguishable from those of late '06. Depending on which account you read, serial vagina-flasher Britney Spears "collapsed," "passed out," or "decided to take a little cat nap" in the middle of Caesar's Palace's Pure nightclub in Vegas (motto: "What happens here, stays here, unless we can use your drunken antics for publicity purposes"), with an unconscious/sleeping Spears either being dragged out of the venue by her ankles or floating out peacefully on a pink, fluffy cloud while dreaming of teddy bears serenading the pop star and her well-cared-for babies with soothing lullabies. Even though Britney's reps have maintained that Child Protective Services hasn't been monitoring her well-publicized return to the club circuit (they've already written off Sean Preston and the other one as losses), that's no guarantee that its Pre-Neglect Division won't view her New Year's Eve misadventures as a red flag and swoop in to tie Spears' tubes before she and an opportunistic bouncer with dreams of a short-lived music career can produce a new litter of ignored offpsring.

Wynn-Picasso leak update: After favorite suspect Jacob Bernstein came forward to say it was actually his poker- and punk-playing brother Max (pictured) that their mother Nora Ephron had told about Steve Wynn poking his Picasso, we added Max to the suspect poll. This cleverly spread out the Bernstein suspicion among the two brothers, leading to Barbara Walters taking the lead. Now Max writes in to defend himself as well, and he brings a new character into the scenario — Arianna Huffington:

In response to our poll about who leaked the story of Steve Wynn mauling his Picasso, Jacob Bernstein himself writes:

Yesterday, we expressed curiosity as to who might have leaked the story about Vegas casino boss Steve Wynn damaging his $139 million Picasso right before selling it. Witness to the event Nora Ephron claimed it was "very clear" who talked to Page Six, but she did not ID the leaker by name. We have our suspicions, and we admit to throwing out another Ephron quote a little disingenuously — the one where she told one of her sons about it, but that it wasn't a violation of the secrecy pact because her son is "completely trustworthy."

Today in the magazine-branding apocalypse: Dennis Publishing has signed a deal with real estate enablers Concorde Wilshire Partners to build Las Vegas' latest atrocity, the $1.2 billion Maxim Hotel and Casino. To be located on the north end of the strip, this polished bubble of inequity will boast a 60,000-square-foot casino and 2,300 rooms (all featuring Maxim brand comforters and dust ruffles), plus the usual overpriced retailers, pseudo-cool nightlife, celebrity chefs, and the unfulfilled promises of Eva Longoria. Of course, the Maxim Thunderdome's biggest allure will be its luxury spa, where new EIC Jimmy Jellinek will be personally giving hot stone massages; for an extra hundred bucks, he'll also color your hair with the mag's now-discontinued Bleach Blonde frosting kit.

Mix '06 is hot and, like all tech conferences in Vegas, debaucherous. Thanks to Flickr for making what happens in Vegas not stay in Vegas.

Blind item: What music company exec got a little too tipsy at CES Vegas? Maybe this man thought he'd wandered into a party for the nearby AVN conference — or maybe "what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas" was an unwise motto.

It's only been a day since George Clooney and his partners announced their plans to open a "classy" casino and resort in Las Vegas, and already so-called "experts" from the gaming industry are crapping all over their fancy dreams:

With stories in both the LAT and on the AP wire about his reportedly heavy financial involvement in the new Las Ramblas casino development in Vegas, George Clooney and his flacks are doing their best to prove that he's not some Hollywood dilettante jerking off at the craps tables. He loves classy, Brat-Packy Old Vegas! He eschews the Mardi-Gras-parade-on-the-ceiling tackiness that attracts Jack and Marion Midwest! And did they mention he's put in a lot of money? But how does a George Clooney decide to get into the gambling business? The same way you might, by pausing in the middle of a bender to ask a buddy how cool it would be to have your own place: