


“I’ve not left Manhattan in two and a half years,” Marc Spitz told The Observer over breakfast in a chic West Village café last week. “When I turned forty, I was just like, buckle down, do good work, do whatever it takes.”
He paused and rubbed his forehead, “Don’t drink with actors.”
The 41 year-old music journalist-cum-biographer-cum-novelist-cum-playwright laughed from behind his tortoise-shell sunglasses which were concealing a hangover. Read More