Ah, yes, nothing says Los Angeles like the drooping, Seussian silhouettes of towering palm trees, backlit against one of our trademark blood-red sunsets. Like rows of green-haired Sideshow Bobs, they line our streets, providing no shade, plunking our cars with rotten dates, and harboring nests of rats. And how we love them, anyway. We can hardly imagine L.A. without their statuesque presence.

But there's trouble in paradise. This disturbing article (Sorry it's an LA Times link. I try to avoid registration required sites, but you can do as I did and let the good people of BugMeNot help you gain entrance) suggests that the era of the palm tree in L.A. may be coming to a close, victim of Las Vegas' insatiable appetite for palms, disease, and (bane of us all) old age. Say it ain't so.  ¶ 3:30 PM