A QUESTIONER ASKS: Do you represent a specific religion with which I might be familiar?

BEN-RAM: I am asked this many times because of the “Ram” portion of my name, which calls to mind the notable visionary Baba Ram Dass, with whom I shared an enthusiasm for stamp-collecting during his pre-enlightened Harvard days and whom I have watched with pleasure as he has ascended the many staircases of cosmic wisdom in the years since our youthful frivolities. Or it may have been his officemate I am thinking of. The two looked very similar except for the broken nose on one or the other of them, which mutated to great effect when either I or he was in the thrall of lysergic acid. Those stamps of ours would probably be worth a fortune now, but since then I have lost all interest in earthly treasures.

Some, meanwhile, sense a hint in my name of Rama (Ramayana), the seventh son of Vishnu, and that connection may indeed have influenced my parents at the time of my birth as they were sifting through possible names. That seems doubtful, though, since they were both Baptists.

These connections can be misleading, I will be the first to acknowledge, since they bear no relationship to my own spiritual beliefs. I have gently rebuked my parents many times for sowing such seeds of confusion while I was still in my crib, but one cannot revisit the past, only the future.

A QUESTIONER ASKS: Have you recovered fully from your recent trawler mishap?

BEN-RAM: But for a few bruises and a mild anal abrasion that I am only aware of when rainstorms are approaching. Thank you for asking.

A QUESTIONER ASKS: When do you plan to return to the Berkshires, or has the cancellation of your advertised appearance at the college here made you disinclined to reschedule a visit.

BEN-RAM: My affection for truth-seekers everywhere prevents me from harboring grudges over silly booking reversals, which is why I allow my lawyers to handle breach of contract disputes that arise in the course of my travels. (There’s no excuse for the missing paperwork to have gone undiscovered until I was already en route from Pittsfield.) But I met a truly wonderful harpsichordist at one of the homebound bus stops who expanded my understanding of how tinniness of timbre can serve as an aural analogy for childbirth on which I hope to expand in future lectures, so the journey was worthwhile even though my anticipation of a proper welcome by my many followers in the area proved illusory.

Ben-Ram’s tells me that his next appearance will be in Montana at a date and place yet to be announced.

When I told a computer geek neighbor that I was buying a Mac, he looked at me sympathetically and said, "That’s too bad." As if I had told him I had contracted a case of athlete’s foot. We fools who bought Macs as the company was about to plunge over a cliff were going to end up as stranded as early adopters of Betamax VCRs. (It’s hard to believe, but at that point many business pundits were predicting that Apple’s poor market share was a sign that the company was in its death throes. Like the Iraqi insurgency six months ago, according to the Vice Prez.)

But Steve Jobs returned from exile, and soon thereafter the iMac line was born and color began returning to Apple’s cheeks, not to mention the company’s first-generation line of temporarily candy-colored machines. The color calmed down in subsequent iMacs but exciting designs continued. In recent times Apple’s new hit, the iPod, has been hogging the spotlight, but it’s still the company’s elegantly designed and user-friendly computers that make my heart go pitty-pat.

My original PowerMac abruptly stopped working in the year 2000. The Y2K bug had nothing to do with it, I should add; it was nowhere near January 1st when my computer went belly-up. Besides, Apple, unlike Microsoft, hadn’t been complacent about building dates with the wrong number of digits into its computers’ workings. By then a capacity to execute and transmit my artwork electronically had become central to my professional modus operandi, so I had no choice but to order a PowerMac G4 overnight, hoping against hope that it would arrive and be working before any of my clients noticed the work stoppage at Howard Cruse Industries.

My credit card, already burdened by leftover debt from my graphic novel adventures, creaked under the strain, but withdrawing from the digital revolution at that point could only have made things worse. By then, like so many people, I was a slave to pixels.

For more than five years since then my G4 has been a loyal workhorse, absorbing dozens of software upgrades and a scary change of structure in its operating system. It’s contributions to my creative life have been many. But lately, signs of arthritis have been creeping into view.

I’ve jacked up the RAM, optimized everything in sight, and tried to ease the strain by ushering as much data as possible through a FireWire leading to a LaCie external hard drive. But despite all of this, my G4’s speed of processing has been getting more and more halting. Commands from my mouse or keyboard have periodically gone ignored for distressing lengths of time, as if somebody’s hearing was slipping away bit by bit, and overall forgetfulness was perhaps setting in. The possibility of a sudden disabling stroke loomed.

At this point computing power has been so totally integrated into my professional life that I have dared not risk even a few days of digital paralysis. Clearly my G4 needed to retire to a simpler life, with the torch of productivity being passed to something more youthful and vigorous. The matter was being taken out of my hands.

Hence the new iMac now sitting on my desk. Boo hoo. Poor me. I can’t afford it, really!

But boy, is that 20" display screen roomy.

Patricia moved to nearby Adams a few years ago from Somerville, MA, where Patricia had curated an annual spring egg show at the Brickbottom Artists Building for eight years running showcasing eggs decorated by her artist friends. This year the itch to resume that tradition here in the Berkshires proved irresistible.

So Patricia has prevailed upon several area artists, myself included, to work whatever artistic wonders strike our fancy upon eggshells (emptied of their yolks, I’m relieved to say) that she has provided.

The results are now on display at the North Adams Public Library at the intersection of East Main and Church Street, where they will be available to library-goers through the month of April. Besides myself, artists with eggs on view are Barbara Armata, Kay Canavino, Sean Riley, Diane Sullivan, Norm Thomas, and folk art collaborators Juliette Wilk-Chafee and her son Ben Chaffee. Pat herself has contributed her "Trypillian-motified eggs" to the mix, and you can bet I’m going to hightail it down Cliff Street to the library at the first opportunity to see what in the world those are!

A few eggs and avian-related artworks from Patricia’s previous exhibits in Somerville are also on display to complement the new ones Patricia has elicited from Berkshire artists. Pier Gustafson, Ram Hannah, Gina Kamentsky, Pauline Lim, Susan Strauss, and V Van Sant are the east-Massachusetts artists responsible for these.

That my own egg is likely to be a true "one-of-a-kind art objet" may be inferred from my response to Patricia’s request that I provide a comment for her press release. "I will probably not make drawing on eggshells my preferred mode of expression," I told her, "since eggs have a habit of wobbling and rolling about this way and that while one is laying down delicate pen lines — a practical drawback not shared by sheets of paper."

I mean no disrespect by this to my contributing goose.

But be that as it may, a three-hour drive lies between Boston and our neck of the mountains. Never one to shrink from exerting whatever effort it takes to achieve his goals, however, Phil came a-calling, accompanied by fellow conference-attendee Linda Adams, Young Adult Coordinator of the San Bernadino Public Library.

We had a great time, as Phil and I always do on the rare occasions when we find ourselves within visiting distance of each other. Anyone who has been around Phil will tell you that he is a ball of fire conversationally, and Linda was delightful to talk to as well. Eddie served his delicious chicken stew, Lulu the dalmatian licked faces all around, and I got comp copies of the new issue of Phil’s comic book series The Winged Tiger, which is good for many a chuckle while being awash in the enthusiasm for sheer creativity that makes all of Phil’s comics both perfect for kids and balm for the soul of anyone who’s feeling beaten down by the cynicism of our era.

Phil, of course, is the galvanizer and cartoonist-in-chief of Cartoonists Across America & The World, an enterprise that’s way too little known considering the good it does. Phil boldly calls himself "the Godfather of the graphic novel." (go to his web site to see why), and like the most devoted godfather that any of us could ask for, Phil travels the globe as an untiring advocate for the art form he has helped nurture from his college days onward. Being around him always gets my juices flowing.