The other day I received a new coloring book dedicated to Wilmette's favorite son, Bill Murray. As random as that may sound, it seemed inevitable — "random" being something akin to everyday in the universe of Bill Murray. "Thrill Murray: A Colouring-In Book Inspired by the Great Man of Cinema" was assembled by the quirky British publisher Belly Kids. It features 50 pages of interpretations of Murray, mostly by British artists; it will be available in the U.S. in a couple of weeks.

Picking a favorite from it is difficult. There's a long-haired, mustached Murray from"Saturday Night Live"; cartoonish Murrays from "Ghostbusters"; pensive Murrays from"Groundhog Day," the metaphysical comedy that marked a Zen turn in his career. I'm particularly crazy about Alice Devine's Hockney-ish drawing of a poolside Murray in "Rushmore" — shirtless, cigarette dangling, drink in hand, a portrait of upper-class disaffection so lonesome it reminds you how good Murray has been.

The project came about during a dinner between editor Mike Coley and a friend: "She went into an hourlong speech about why Bill was undoubtedly the sexiest man alive. She gave immense passion to the list of reasons she loved him, and great detail to the actions with which she'd like to prove it."

As opposed to, say, the fleeting hipster fetishizing of Christopher Walken, however, Coley's decision to put together a Bill Murray coloring book sprang out of genuinely sincere, nonironic admiration for the actor, he insisted. The book is not officially sanctioned or Bill Murray-endorsed, "just a series of images inspired by the awesomeness of Bill."

But it does come at the right moment.

"Thrill Murray" is filled with images of a sad-faced, spiritually-spent Murray — the book leans heavily on the melancholy second act of his career. And yet, it's a remarkable thing: Lately it feels a day hasn't gone by when we're not reminded of how approachable, contented and cheerful Murray, who turns 62 in September, has been playing the role of a cultural icon. There are his movies, of course: This summer, as the frustrated, barely there father of a runaway girl in Wes Anderson's"Moonrise Kingdom," he's in archetypal territory, wandering shirtless through big houses, bored by his own complacency. (He has a wonderful, tossed-off moment when, exhausted and in no mood to argue, he breaks up a young couple romantically huddled beneath a pup tent by lifting the entire tent off the ground in one irritable swipe.)

And this fall, for the umpteenth time since "Rushmore" — the first movie to garner serious Oscar talk for Murray — he ventures into Award Land again, stretching some to play FDR in "Hyde Park on Hudson."

But his movies only skim the surface.

His extracurricular activities (aka, his life) have been just as fun to watch, and just as incisive: In spring, on opening day at Wrigley Field, he ran the bases after throwing the ceremonial first pitch; last month, during a rain delay at a Charleston RiverDogs game in South Carolina, Murray (who is a co-owner of the minor league baseball team) darted across the field tarp, belly-flopping into puddles. Then there are the countless well-documented, out-of-nowhere appearances: Murray popping-up in karaoke bars, washing dishes at strangers' parties, reading poetry to construction workers in New York, driving a golf cart through Stockholm. There was a moment a year and a half ago when Murray dutifully heckled Packers fans during a playoff game at Soldier Field.

Then, a couple of weeks ago, the satirical website Super Official News ran an item about Murray embarking on a "party crashing tour" of America, starting Aug. 1 in Arizona, ending Sept. 10 in Austin. Texas. It was a joke, of course, but it was picked up by several TV stations and blogs around the country and presented as news.

And why not?

"I think we want to believe that would be true, because we can imagine it being true," said Bill Kilpatrick, a Philadelphia Web development executive who runs the website "Bill Murray Stories: No One Will Ever Believe You" — the subtitle a nod to what Murray supposedly tells the startled bystanders at his appearances.

Kilpatrick started the site two years ago; he posted a handful of examples of Murray encounters, then mostly abandoned the site. Until recently, when random visitors, with surprising regularity, began leaving fresh stories, a mix of well-documented, possibly accurate and clearly fictional encounters with the actor.

"Now I think Bill Murray has become as much an urban legend as he is an actor," Kilpatrick said. "But unlike most urban legends, a lot of this seems to happen. And good for him if it does, because I think we relish the aura he gives off, that you can be super-successful and still come off as a decent person, that you can be famous without giving up on enjoying yourself in life. It's so rare. It's like the normal rules don't apply to him."

Someday the Legend of Bill Murray will be written, read and passed down through generations: Once there was a funny man so unimpressed with the machinations of his fame, his younger self — ironically detached, supremely relaxed, never quite taking the situation seriously — eventually merged with his older, more thoughtful and self-aware self. Showbiz-wise, at least, the man began living off the grid, working without an agent or a publicist, using an 800 number for business matters and doing as he pleased, beholden to no one. The funny thing is, rather than hurt the man's career, this radical approach to stardom only cemented his legend. He was canonized, beloved, considered the people's star, the only living actor who everyone with eyeballs could still agree on. In fact, yes, he became more than a legend. He became an urban legend: Even today they say that when it's least expected the man will playfully clasp his hands in front of the eyes of strangers and ask "Guess who?" Then, revealing himself, add: "No one will ever believe you."

Then he disappears.

Most of that legend is quite true: Murray hasn't had an agent or publicist in years, and he keeps a closely guarded 800 number for business calls. But when asked in interviews about the "No one will ever believe you" thing, Murray is known to turn coy, dismissive, playfully evasive, wisely neither confirming nor denying.