Todd Evergreen is throwing a party.

It was the talk of the town.

Todd Evergreen—yes, that Evergreen—was throwing a once-in-a-lifetime soiree. An extravaganza of such monolithic proportions that nothing, we were sure, would ever be the same.

We were right. It wasn’t.

It will take us weeks, even years, to sort through the rumor and gossip, the decadence and debris. But we feel it is our ­responsibility—duty even—to give it that old college try.

Speaking of which . . . is it true about Columbia? That they gave Crawford the boot? You would think, with the father’s fellowship and all . . .but gun money is one thing, we suppose, and Illegal Possession of Firearms another thing entirely.

But we digress.

Todd Evergreen—is he going by Yum Caax these days?—threw a party. And for those who have to Wikipedia—Yum Caax [jum ka:∫]: the Mayan god of plants. The phrase literally translating—how deliciously kitsch!—to “he who serves as lord of the forest.”

Todd was a living Harry Potter book! (We skimmed, but sounds about right.)

Speaking of which . . . did you hear about that jungle room? The one on the third (fourth?) floor. Peruvian monkeys and a baby jaguar (in a tiny Vuitton sweater, how adorable! We want them for our nieces). Then there was the three-hundred-pound python . . . neon green, nonetheless, and the rain-forest vegetation (illegally shipped, we suspect). Our interior decorators are in an utter tizzy, they’ve been after that Amazonian mahogany for simply ages (an armoire for the parlor?). Yet somehow Yum—sorry, Todd—procured it overnight?

Some things seem so terribly unfair, don’t you agree? And not seeing it ourselves? Unfairest of all!

But let us attempt to stay focused here, to impart what we know. To fit together the puzzle pieces, as it were, from our various sources; to mesh secondhand accounts of firsthand observation with the whispered conversations of Those in the Know. And if we’ve listened hard enough (we have) to just the right people (you know it), then we might just get the picture.

Beyond, of course, the ones that already exist!

Oh . . . you haven’t seen them?

How could that possibly be?

Well, don’t worry a bit (worry), we’ll simply fill you in on everything! (Since you obviously live under a rock.)

Well, first things first. As OKP are well aware, scheduling is key, and our lifestyle dictates an order to things (e.g., Botox before filler, Pilates before lipo, background check before nanny hire if wanting to keep your silver!). But for the sake of ­brevity—and to get to the juicy part—we’ll do a quick-as-can-be little rundown recap (just like on TV!).

There was that Times article (Did we invest in the Rock Exchange? Get my accountant on the line. And I mean ASAP!), then The Set launch party travesty (we loved it). How divine was that parting of the Red Sea thing? But oh, did that little Broadway heiress made an utter fool of herself (well, her mother was rather dramatic, remember that Tony speech? She thanked her inner child, for godsakes!), that Southern-belle editor with a checkered past (psychotic tendencies, tsk-tsk), and the magazine itself, which was not at all bad (that layout with the ne’er-do-wells dripping in diamonds? Divine!).

But the highlight of the evening by far? The arrival of Evergreen’s mother, from a faraway planet called Oregon. What an utter debacle (we loved it!)! What a horrific faux pas (I mean, REALLY loved it!). Seriously, we could not get enough.

Then came the media folderol, of course, the headlines on every page. Golden Boy Tarnished, so on and so forth, Hoff Media responds (that Gerald is rather brash, agreed?). There was that incendiary Atlantic write-up (didn’t read it) and the New Yorker piece (skimmed), Vanity Fair hinting at eco-cult ties and FOX News proclaiming liberal bias. And topper? The real crème on the brûlée? That horrific interview Matt Lauer did via satellite (Lovely man, though we hear his marriage is on the rocks. Confirm? Deny?).

There she was, cross-legged in the proverbial grass. That same flowy robe and piled-on amber jewelry (why is it always amber with these types?). She denied the rumors, spoke of the commune mission (some hippie-dippie nonsense involving trees). Then she gave the tour, showing off her yurt, then led a granola-making lesson (we kid you not), the recipe of which we might very well try (i.e., pass it on to the personal chef).

Lauer can be such a bully, on that we agree, but that tree-hugging act? Simply inane. The woman hugged a tree. Literally.

And what about that hair! Nearly to her ankles, Lady Godiva–style. Have you ever seen anything more ridiculous on a grown woman? (We’re secretly a tad bit jealous.)

And as for Evergreen? Another disappearing act. Probably escaped to Cuba, we theorized, or with that Branson fellow on his private island. (He has a golden toilet for a throne! How very nouveau of him. But we do allow for concessions with those “artist” types. As for Trump’s diamond door, well . . . he simply has the loveliest daughter, don’t you agree?)

Even without the man himself, the legacy endured . . . the debates, the leaked contracts, that rapper married to Kim Kardashian offering up yet another sound bite (what was his name again?).

The Associated Press wires, the worldwide media outlets, the onslaught of international press coverage . . . the whole gobbledygook of utter (delicious!) vulgarity.

Evergreen or not, the debates raged on. Intellectual property rights, child advocacy rights, eco-commune rights . . . (yawn).

What we really cared about? The part that was missing. Our little Yum Caax himself, Mr. Todd Evergreen.

Where could he possibly have gone? And will he ever come back to us?

(Our bridge team is in desperate need of new fodder to chew on.)

Then, like a miracle from above, the first invitation arrived.

The invites? Unexpected, exclusive. Who did this guy think he was? Jay Gatsby?

Evelyn Webbils’s fourth cousin Claudia—we know her from the club—had gotten one. Claudia (Bryn Mawr, anorexic, 2011 Deb Coterie) seemed an odd choice, with her middle-­to-lower-scale looks and sour disposition. And from what we’ve been told by a select few individuals (practically everyone), her hobbies tend toward the—how shall we say?—lowbrow in nature? (Whiskey sours, lesbian experimentation, and that year she followed Phish around the country.)

Now we had a source from which to gleam information, as Claudia would tell Evelyn, who would tell Ricardo at the hairdresser’s, who’d then dial us up immediately (we tip well). Evelyn would have told us herself, of course, but we were on the outs that week (she knows what she did). Besides, it was much more fun this way!

According to Ricardo (via Evelyn via Claudia), the invitee had never even met Evergreen. And the invitation itself offered up few revelations, but once she’d texted the number (untraceable, trust us), she received very specific instructions. Show up alone, formal dress required, no cell phones or smartphones or gate-crashers . . . just on and on.

What was this, we’d wondered, a reality-show setup? Survivor for the Spence set?

Quite frankly, it made us nervous.

And Bygones Be Bygones? How odd. Our kind is not known for apologies, as we are rarely guilty of anything (even when we are . . . which is never).

Then again, Evergreen was never one of us. Not really.

And who knew if this party was real in the first place! Impostors, as we all know, are rampant. Remember that Long Island girl who’d posed as a Rockefeller, landing herself that Vermont tire heir (Yalie, coke problem, plays a mean doubles)? Once the PI had surfaced the truth, she’d been relegated to Boca with the white-collar criminals. For a while, she’d seemed content as could be (the stylist, masseuse, personal shopper, and huge alimony check were of help), but those secrets you keep in your walk-in closet? Bound to be revealed (meth, two baby daddies, an arrest warrant . . . and forget Rockefeller ties, hers were more Sammy the Bull in nature).

When these secrets come out—as they always do—we all know the key word is discretion (meaning get out of town as fast as you can and hope everyone forgets in a few years . . . PS: They won’t).

A party admitting to your inadequacies? Celebrating them, nonetheless? We’d never heard of such blatant disregard for proper social interactions.

(Why didn’t we get an invitation? If only we were twenty years younger.)

The party was to begin at seven thirty sharp, from what our sources have said (meaning what our lawyer’s third wife had overheard at the Bergdorf salon rinse station), and the location was extraordinary (or so said the ladies-who-lunch-if-­you-count-picking-at-a-salad on their weekly Four Seasons engagement).

The setting of the most hotly discussed society gathering since Truman Capote’s Black and White Ball?

Brooklyn. We know. Exotic, to say the least (but what of safety? Did the “come alone” thing include bodyguards?).

But by this point in the hoopla, guests would have flown from Kathmandu to attend, that’s how frantic the excitement had become, at what high frequency the buzz was buzzing.

This crowd certainly had access to private jets.

From those who were rumored to be attending, the demographic was clear: the 1 percent of the 1 percent. Or to be more specific, their children.

Todd Evergreen’s party—on this we could all agree—would be the stuff of legends (if you made it over the BQE without getting stabbed, that is!).

The rich are different from you and me. We’ve heard it a million times. Some attributing the quote to good old F. Scott, others to his frenemy Hemingway.

As for us, we could not care less; having said it at all speaks volumes. The You and Me may say such things, but certainly not members of our circle.

Perhaps we are old-fashioned, but this is what we were taught, and we live it to the letter: when you have everything in the entire world, flaunting it is unnecessary.

Leave the peacocking to those with less natural wealth; leave it to Paris Hilton. Gaudy nouveau might get you on the cover of Star, but it won’t get you prime seats at the Met Ball.

For People Like Us, every rope is lifted, every step we take is down a red carpet. And when bestowed with such a gift—and, yes, we were chosen—there also come certain obligations.

We know, we know. Terribly snobby, but rather the truth, don’t you think?

On compound or yacht, manor or private island, we follow the lead of our parents and theirs before them: we lie low, indulge only in private, and are sure to keep our gossip to just under a whisper.

Be discreet with your indiscretions. It is simply that simple.

That is why—and we do not exaggerate here—these photos compromise our very existence.

Not that we didn’t enjoy them!

We may have assets beyond imagination, but we are also human. And so long as our reputations are not on the line, curiosity is both healthy and encouraged.

(And regarding the above conversation? Let’s keep it between us, dear.)

From what we gather, the party ended at noon (the day after). By seven-ish, the site had gone live.

By seven thirty a.m., there’d been twenty thousand hits (give or take a few. Our husbands handle the numbers!), the page views increasing with each passing moment.

By seven forty-five, it was official; this was a scandal of unfathomable proportions.

By eight, we’d called everyone in our Rolodex.

With frantic whispers and the aid of voice dial, we’d begun piecing it all together.