The FM radio in my car doesn't work, or it works in a sense, in that it picks up static, so I'm relegated to the power of the AM on the way to and from work every day.

I could choose silence, but the danger there is that my brain starts to kick up the dust of past unresolved arguments, humiliations, or worries, so it's better if I have some kind of noise in the background, to keep me focused.

AM radio is a varied terrain, heavy on the religion and leaden humor, but light on surprises, and that can be a good thing, especially in erratic stop-and-go traffic. I know, listening to AM radio, that I'm guaranteed to hear some version of "Frenesi" once an hour. Once, I heard two versions of it within about fifteen minutes of each other, but that has proven to be a rare occurrence. All the way to work, it's "Frenesi," Jesus, and Ray Charles' "I Can't Stop Loving You." And Peggy Lee. AM radio still plays a lot of Peggy Lee, like her great hit records just came out last week.

On the way home, I can pick up a station partway, until I hit the mountains and the signal dies. The only show on is Dr. Laura Schlesinger, and I get about two miles' distance to listen to her interrupt and judge her callers before the station goes to static. Sometimes, it takes me a mile or two to notice the change.

I go to some trouble to avoid being alone with my own thoughts, because I come from a long line of naturally gifted, creative worriers, and I believe it's my generation's responsibility to break the cycle, man. It would be difficult to determine which female in my family would take the crown as Queen Worrier, but my mother is a front-runner.

One night years ago, we were driving up the road to her house in the quiet suburban town where she lives, and noticed a small white panel truck parked on the side of the road. My mother gasped her patented musical gasp of alarm, and said, dread in her tone, "Ohhhh.... that's Marian's house. I hope that's not a Paddy Wagon..."

Marian is a quiet, reserved neighbor lady who lives in a neat brick house set back from the road. In discussing the incident with my brother E, I commented that it was hard to imagine the police coming for Marian. E pointed out that even if she'd knifed her husband to death, the cops wouldn't come for her in a Paddy Wagon--a vehicle reserved for raucous bar brawls involving multiple participants. Marian, were she to be hauled off, would get the squad car, for sure, with a policeman's hand on her head so she wouldn't bump it on the frame.

My mother's instant reaction to the truck, which incidentally, had no markings on it of any kind, much less a police emblem, scared me, because I start to think about the likelihood that her mindset could be hereditary. Her mother's the same way, so clearly it hasn't skipped a generation.

On some level, I admire her ability to immediately assume the absolute, illogical worst in a situation. It speaks to a jaundiced nature totally at odds with her cheerful, church-going demeanor and adds a level of complexity I find simultaneously intriguing and frustrating.

There is an appeal to the art of worrying. It allows the worrier to feel concerned and productive, without requiring any actual effort. The problem is, finding increasing numbers of things to worry about tends to obliterate the ability to plan, or to hope, or to enjoy anything. It's hard to appreciate Marian's garden while you're imagining a riot squad in her driveway.

I try to keep the worry demon at bay, but until I learn to avoid him completely, I've got my car, got the AM radio on.

Star of the day. . .Alberto Dominguez