I once took a poetry workshop with Mark Doty in Provincetown. Of the dozen or so young men in the class, at least half had an Anthony Perkins story. And I mean a story. Mine (writing him a mash letter and delivering it to the stage door of The Star-Spangled Girl on Broadway when I was in high school) was the mildest and least sensational by a long shot. One young poet had had an ongoing thing with the Psycho star. A few others just a one-off evening. I met him once when he was appearing with Mia Farrow in a Boston tryout of a play called Romantic Comedy. They had both come into the television station where I was working and I was determined to introduce my friend George (a fanatic Farrow fan) to his inamorata. Perkins was peevish, probably because of the play’s less-than-positive notices. He swept by with a preoccupied look on his face. Farrow could not have been more charming and down to Earth.