Last night HBO threw a lavish, over-the-top party to promote the second season of GIRLS, a program which I'm told I'm not allowed to hate because I've "only" seen the first three episodes of the first season (and part of that one where they parody hipsters at a warehouse party in Bushwick). I do recall laughing at some of what I saw, cringing at other parts (mostly the overly-broad observational comedy about social media), and then going on "one of my rants" about entitled trust funders vampiring New York's soul like Skeskis feasting on succulent Gelfling essence.

But who cares what I think; I'm an old broken down piece of meat who deserves to die alone watching old Miami Vice episodes—not exactly the target demographic for GIRLS. I was, however, an ideal target demographic for their open bar last night. The party was held at Capitale, a deluxe catering hall inside a spectacular old bank on the Bowery. The first thing you saw upon entering was a GIGANTIC freaking replica of the Brooklyn Bridge, which everyone traipsed across on their way to the event space. (I wish I knew what dumpster this landed in afterward, because it would be pretty sweet to reassemble it in my apartment, Merv Griffin-style, and ride my bike recklessly back and forth on it.)

On the other side of the bridge, splendid extravagances worthy of a high class Manhattan heiress awaited, just like in real life! I foolishly ate beforehand, so missed out on the orgy of food being doled out buffet style at stations throughout the massive room. But the open bar—or bars, there were too many to count—was put to parasitical good use. Celebrities rubbed elbows with the nobodies—Jonah Hill! Steve Buscemi! Carrie Brownstein! Terry Richardson! Model Hilary Rhoda! Scarlett Johansson's BFF Scott Stringer!—and Jen Carlson tried to take a reverse photobomb of me and my main man William H. Macy, but it was too crowded to pull off properly.

I wish I could blame this morning's crippling homicidal hangover for my lack of anything further to say about all this, but aside from the indoor Brooklyn Bridge the night was pretty uneventful. We didn't even go to the screening, and we never saw Lena Dunham, so I didn't get a chance to thank her in advance for creating a TV show that ultimately led to me getting blotto and tweeting too much, JUST like a character on that TV show from the '80s about the cops in Miami.

[DISCLOSURE: This boring story was made possible thanks to an invitation from HBO. I did not pay for any beverages and accepted a gift bag which is filled with all sorts of esoteric cosmetics that I intend to experiment with tonight while wearing meggings and listening to "Goodbye Horses." ]