A male of the American high literati variety in its natural habitat.

Tuesday afternoon was a particularly outdoorsy one for The Observer. Donning binoculars, sneakers, sunscreen, and shorts, we set off to Central Park to get in touch with nature and to go bird watching. Among our avian sightings? A Red-tailed Hawk, a Black-crowned Night Heron, two Eastern King Birds, and a particularly interesting bespectacled male of the American high literati — Jonathan Franzen.

Mr. Franzen is to birding what David Byrne is to cycling. An up-and-coming spokesperson for the hobby, he was in Central Park to help launch the new HBO documentary, Birders: The Central Park Effect. Airing on July 16, the film follows seven urban birdwatchers as they literally schedule their lives around the rhythms of bird migration passing through New York. Unabashedly among them is Mr. Franzen.

If you're familiar with his writing you're well aware that we're talking about a serious birder here. After all, the protagonist of Freedom, his 2010 "masterpiece of American fiction," is a birder gone berserk who spends the novel fighting to establish a safe haven for Cerulean Blue Warblers in West Virginia. "With a name as beautiful and a bird as endangered as the Cerulean Blue Warbler," Mr. Franzen told The Observer, drawing out the syllables, "Well, how couldn't I use that bird for Freedom?"

Avian subject matter isn't just limited to Mr. Franzen's fiction. His most recent non-fiction collection, Farther Away, has four different essays that touch on his ornithological obsession. In one piece about a hardcore solitary birding exhibition in the South Pacific, he writes of his late best friend, David Foster Wallace: "I understood the difference between his unmanageable history and my manageable discontents to be that I could escape myself in the joy of birds and he could not." (Birding as an antidote to the suffering of the twisted artist?)

But as into birding as Mr. Franzen is, he's not unaware that bird watching is considered pretty damn weird. "I think it's a really weird and uncool thing to be doing," he told The Observer. His friends even told him that birding was tantamount to social suicide. "They clutched their foreheads and said, 'Don't do that, it's so weird.' I walked through the park for first year or two with my binoculars hidden, discreetly bring them up when I saw something, and then quickly putting them down."

Soon, however, he got over the stigma. "A funny thing happened to me," he said. "Basically I fell in love with birds." And love soon turned into a sort of addiction. When he should have been writing in the mornings, finishing Freedom, he was in Central Park, bird spotting.

"Then there began to be diminishing returns," he told us. "When the deadlines for the novel had come and gone, I had to reprioritize. So, I started to use birding trips as imperatives, promising myself a great trip as soon as I was done with something." And as soon as he finished Freedom he was off — a seven-week birding trip to the Mediterranean. "I definitely pine for birds when I have been deprived of them for too long. And I think to have someone come out and speak to the weirdness and uncoolness of it, well, it's —."

But before he could continue, Starr Saphir, a veteran Central Park birding guide who was leading the HBO stroll, yelled, "Black-crowned Night Heron!"

Binoculars out, Mr. Franzen shut up. "Yep, there you go." Binoculars down. "Go ahead. You can even spot it with your naked eye." So, The Observer tried to find it. One minute. Two minutes. Two and a half. Mr. Franzen kept giving us directions, and eventually took us to the side and said, "I am determined to help you find this bird. You can do it." Three and a half minutes. Taking us by the shoulders, he then pivoted us forty-five degrees farther to the left. "It's right there. In front of you. 12 o'clock." We were starting to get really embarrassed until (finally!), there it was. The Night Heron!

Sympathetic, he reassured us with a smile, "It's okay. This is tricky at first."

Then it was on to more seeking and strolling. Mr. Franzen and a fellow birder got into a small tiff about the owl population on the north end of the East River. Two zany old hippies were too-loudly reminiscing about the days of nude sunbathing in Central Park. "There was a different kind of bird watching going on, if you know what I mean," one of them said. We think we heard Franzen giggle. Who knows, though — he might have just been happy to see a little cedar waxwing perched overhead. But before there were any words on the waxwing, a fancy birder in Prada and open-toed patent pumps broke the silence. "Shit! It just shat on me!"

Eyes rolled. What an amateur.

Philip Glass, in blue, performing with his ensemble.

Yesterday was hot — miserably hot. We were loath to go outside. We lingered in the doorways of air-conditioned restaurants and corner delis (we even bought things we didn't want from those delis just to bask in a brief respite of cool). The number of passersby on the street The Observer heard mutter, "It's so fucking hot"? Nine.

The number of music aficionados, free-outdoor-concert enthusiasts, and liberal artsy types of all ages willing to brave the heat for a concert by Philip Glass in Rockefeller Park on Wednesday night? As many as 5,000.

Part of the annual River To River Festival, the concert was the classical music giant's only free gig of the year. The hodres kept streaming in — picnic blankets, Whole Foods takeout, and lawn chairs in tow — and the excitement was tangible. As a fan told The Observer, "This is big. When Glass gives a free show. You go. Period."

But before Glass took center stage, the concert opened with a performance by Face The Music, the city's only teen classical musical ensemble (the oldest member was born in 1994!), who played "Glassworks" — vintage Glass, "arguably the most classic Glass out there," The Observer overheard. To our right, a bespectacled, bearded hardcore Glass fan told us, "I saw 'Glassworks' back in '82. At Hahhhvard," he drawled. "Snuck into the auditorium and sat right down. No one saw! Haven't been able to get enough since."

At first, the crowd seemed less than enthusiastic about the adolescent ensemble. We overheard a fair amount of "When is Glass actually going to come on?"

But they spoke too soon. This was hardly child's play. The strings began. Then a piano. The crowd perked its ears, raised its eyebrows, and whispered a collective "wow." A moppy-haired boy — 11, tops, who bore a striking resemblance to the master himself — took to the electric keyboard, tearing it up with the quintessential piano-gone-wild cacophonic genius that is Glass. "Wow. These kids are amazing!" The crowd picked up their blankets and canvas CSA bags, and moved closer to the kids.

And sitting cross-legged in the grass among the laypeople was the master himself. Taking it all in. Alone and inconspicuous. No one seemed to recognize him, until a picnicker pointed a finger and raised an iPhone. A few cameras followed. But, all in all, the crowd was pretty blasé, taking another sip of their organic lemonade and keeping their cool.

Half an hour later, Glass went behind the main stage. The mini-Glasses stopped and it was time to face the master.

A fan sitting to our left, a white-haired woman who looked like she probably had a good time at Woodstock, told The Observer, "I first saw him in 1969." She took a swig from a bottle —"grapefruit shower gel" from the Body Shop, according to the label —smacked her lips and let a subtle smirk. Gin. "'69. Back in Poughkeepsie. It was like, 'oh my god.'"

Our small talk was cut short when WNYC radio personality John Schaefer got on stage. "This has been a big year for Philip Glass." On January 31st, Glass celebrated his 75th birthday. Other notables born on the same day? Franz Schubert and Justin Timberlake. "And few people would be happier than Philip Glass to share a birthday with both Schubert and Timberlake," Mr. Schaefer said.

Then it was Glass time. He was playing with his ensemble (aptly named The Philip Glass Ensemble), comprised of three pianists, one killer female pianist/vocalist, three on the horns, and an electronic sound maestro in the back. They opened with, "Civil Wars," a composition from 1982 and followed with "Music and Similar Motion," from 1964. Yes. 1964.

But our bootlegging neighbor was not satisfied. "This is so 20th century. Come on already. Show us something new." Another sip and a wink. "I expect a lot from my geniuses."

Everyone else, however, looked like they were enjoying themselves. 20-something couples with funny glasses and funnier hats lied down and drummed their fingers to the curious rhythms of Glass's piano. Two seventy-something men meditated. Little boys with long hair and cool-looking parents ran around the grass. The Observer smelled some wafts of weed (a quiet protest to the fight in Albany?).

Then it was screechcrackzzzzz. Ears plugged. But was it just part of the music? "Now, finally, that's something new!" said our increasingly tipsy friend. Another deafening screech. Nope. Philip Glass's piano had just broken.

He took the mic. "As you can see, we have a little problem that we need to deal with. Be back in a few minutes. It'll be a little cooler then."

Someone from the audience shouted, "Sing for us!"

Five minutes later, Mr. Glass and his crew were back. The sun was setting over the Hudson. Joggers and roller-bladers along the water had stopped and made their way over to the music. People in business suits toting briefcases down West Street stood on benches behind the stage. Some loosened their ties. The ever-increasing crowd looked more and more mesmerized as the longest day of the year was coming to a close. And it just wasn't the weed, the hidden gin in cosmetic bottles and flasks, the wine poured from paper sacks into Nalgene canteens.

Hands moving like mad, hunched over his piano, sitting up straight every couple of minutes and throwing his head back, Philip Glass was a force to be reckoned with.

Was it as good as Cambridge in '82, The Observer asked our bearded friend when the concert ended. "It's Glass. He's always this good."

It might have been lights, camera, action inside Sarah Jessica Parker and Anna Wintour's private fundraiser for President Obama last night, but outside, on the corner of West 4th and Charles Street, it was more dogs, barricades and disgruntled neighbors.

The night was warm, the police were plentiful, and The Observer waited on the curb for the president to arrive. Standing behind the police line on Charles and West 4th, it felt like a spontaneous summer block-party.

A group of longtime West Villagers reminisced on the state of the neighborhood pre-Magnolia and Marc. "I remember when Bleecker was all mom and pop shops. When there were actually artists in the Village." Another resident chimed in, "Yeah. I remember —"

Nostalgia was cut short when a small tour group from Hong Kong, marching down West 4th toward Charles, eyes wide and cameras in tow, stopped and asked The Observer, "What's going on here?" "President Obama is having dinner at Sarah Jessica Parker's house," we answered. In disbelief and in unison, they turned to one another and shouted, "Carrie!"

As much anticipation as there was to see the president, or other famous faces, there was just as much if not more frustration from SJP's neighbors — toting laundry bags, late for a meeting, sweaty from exercising — who weren't allowed past the police barricade.

"I live right there, on Charles. Why can't you let me in?! This is ridiculous!" a woman told a cop manning a barricade on the northwest corner of the intersection. "Ma'am, ma'am. Calm down, please! The president is inside," the cop barked back. "So what!" she yelled. "Tough luck, honey."

By 6:45, more president-sighting hopefuls and angry neighbors had amassed at the barricades, some taking photos and others making hasty "I'm going to be late" calls on their iPhones. More police motorcycles pulled up to the corner. A dozen or so more police officers neared the scene. A couple SUVs of what looked like Secret Service pulled up. A helicopter was heard overhead. Obama was about to arrive.

On tip-toe, the crowd hushed, necks strained, waiting. But, alas, we were duped: the president had bypassed all crowds, taking a route from Bleecker down Charles.

There was a collective sigh among us. "Well, that's that." Even those pretending not to care seemed disappointed.

Once the president was in, a barricade opened across Charles, and The Observer squeezed through, hoping to catch a peek of the scene. At first the only thing visible chez Parker-Broderick was a giant tent-like protective canopy that went from their stoop to the other side of the street. That, and four or five snipers crouching on the roof.

Then we looked up to find Matthew Broderick. He slipped into a town car to make it to Broadway to perform in Nice Work If You Can Get It.

A few minutes later, Aretha Franklin, decked out in a silvery gown, was on the corner, only to be ushered quickly into another of the myriad black town cars and driven from the premises.

A cop manning the barricade on the sidewalk near SJP's townhouse had been there since 8AM and let us in on some of the gossip. "Meryl Streep, she's definitely in there." We wondered if maybe both devils were wearing Prada.

The cop seemed like she was going to give more details, but then a ramshackle crew of about 30 Occupy types walked around the corner of Perry Street and down West 4th, yelling "Mic check!"

"We wanna make sure that Barry gets his corporate money," an activist holding an "Obama = CorpWhore, Obama = War Criminal" sign told The Observer. And thoughts on SJP? "Aw, what an airhead. Boycott Sarah Jessica, boycott Sex and the City!!"

At that point, a Tory Burch-clad lady sipping what looked like a Kir Royale on the patio of Extra Virgin, a restaurant on West 4th, piped up. "Hey, leave Sarah Jessica alone. And, Corporate America, we work for them." Her protest, however, was short-lived. She sat down and went back to her drink, and the protesters rallied on.

By now it was nearing 8:15.  The police were getting tired. "Man, they told me I'd get off work by 4:00 this afternoon, 4:30 tops. Forget it. I'm starved. Don't talk to me unless you're gonna give me a piece of pizza," an officer joked.  The neighbors were getting even more frustrated. A Charles Street resident to our right was "very late" for a date. Even the protestors seemed to be petering out.

But at about 8:45 we heard a helicopter overhead and the revving-up of NYPD motorcycles and cars. The protestors ran around the corner to Bleecker, where it seemed the president's motorcade would be exiting. And so it ended. Obama left, heading uptown for another event at the Plaza Hotel with Mariah Carey.

Suddenly someone behind us shouted, "Look! There's a layperson walking down Charles!"