ffacase (pronounced L'Fass-uh-say), prolix, wide-read editor
of the Los Angeles _Intelligencer_. Till the last press stopped the
_Intelligencer_ would continue to disseminate the news. Among those
remaining was Le ffacase's acereporter, Jacson C. (for Crayman) Gootes,
28. Gootes' permanent beat: the heart of the menacing grass where he met
his death."

Under Religion, _Time_ had another note about the weed. "Harassed
Angelinos, distracted & terrified by encroaching _Cynodon dactylon_
(TIME Aug. 10) now smothering their city (see National Affairs) were
further distracted when turning on their radios (those still working)
last week. The nasal, portentous boom of the evangelist calling himself
Brother Paul (real name: Algernon Knight Mood) announced the 2nd Advent.
It was taking place in the heart of the choking grass. What brought
death and disaster to the country's 3rd city offered hope and bliss to
followers of Brother Paul. 'Sell all you have,' advised the
radiopreacher, 'fly to your Savior who is gathering His true disciples
at this moment in the very center of the grass. Do not fear, for He will
sustain and comfort you in the thicket through which the unsaved cannot
pass.' At last report countless followers had been forcibly restrained
from self-immolation in the _Cynodon dactylon_, unnumbered others gone
joyfully to their beatification. Not yet reported as joining his Savior:
Brother Paul."

Under People: "Admitted to the Relief rolls of San Diego County this
week were Adam Dinkman & wife, whose front lawn (TIME Aug. 3) was the
starting point of the plaguing grass. Said Mrs. Dinkman, 'The government
ought to pay....' Said Adam Dinkman, '... it's a terrible thing....'"

I resolved to send the Dinkmans some money as soon as I could possibly
afford it. I made a note to this effect in a pocket memorandumbook,
feeling the glow of worthy sacrifice, and then went out and got in my
car. It was all right to digest facts and figures about the weed from
the printed page, but it was necessary to see again its physical
presence before writing anything for so critical an editor as W R Le
ffacase.

I drove through the Second Street tunnel and out Beverly Boulevard.
There, several miles from the most advanced runners of the grass, the
certainty of its coming lay like a smothering blanket upon the
unnaturally silent district. There was no traffic on my side of the
street and only a few lastminute straggling jalopies, loaded dow