FRIDAY, DECEMBER 7, 2001 — The winter of our discontent? Not quite.

With temperatures in Boston climbing above 70 degrees, the summer of our dissatisfaction seems like a more fitting phrase. Indeed, the first day of December was more suited to a day at the beach than an economy-boosting holiday spending spree. The photo accompanying the Boston Globe’s Sunday weather report — of a shorts-and-T-shirt-clad woman lugging a Christmas tree — provided a timely reminder that this global-warming business is working out for us New Englanders very nicely indeed. In Israel, meanwhile, things were heating up in a decidedly less agreeable manner. "Suicide Bombers Hit Jerusalem," groaned the Boston Herald. "12 killed, 150 Wounded in Mall Blasts." Chances are the perpetrators of the attack — who packed their bombs with nails and screws for maximum carnage — won’t be needing their winter woollies where they’re going, either.

The ding-dong in Afghanistan was relegated to the back burners on Monday as fire and fury erupted in Israel yet again. "Bus Blast Kills 17 More in Israel," reported the Globe, as the city of Haifa fell victim to an act of vicious terrorism: a public-bus bombing that also left 35 wounded. Ah yes, Hamas demonstrates once more that women, children, and old folks are no match for its heroic freedom fighters. "Deadly Bombings Put Heat on Arafat," reported the Herald, with some understatement, on the same day. The Palestinian leader’s decision to arrest 150 militants in the West Bank and Gaza Strip had too-little-too-late written all over it — like applying sunscreen to third-degree burns. Another authority currently feeling the heat — this one closer to home — inspired the Herald’s headline of the week: "Messport."

"Israel Lays Blame, Retaliates," reported the Globe on Tuesday, with an accompanying photo that showed the sizzling remains of Yasser’s Gaza compound. Throughout it all — the eyebrow-singeing proximity of the Israeli missile strikes, the scorching speeches of Prime Minister Ariel Sharon — Arafat reportedly remained as cool as the proverbial cucumber, filling out expense reports (or whatever it is he does in that office of his) as the conflagration roared around him. The real hot news of the day, however, involved a middle-class clod who thought it might be a bit of a lark to go and fight for the Taliban. Or at least that’s how supporters of John Phillip Walker would like us to see it. "A youthful indiscretion," is how one family friend described the 20-year-old Californian’s decision to go jihadi. The Herald was less forgiving: "Traitor," read its front-page headline, complete with a full-color shot of a bearded, grubby, and prostrate Walker looking less like a holy warrior than an exhausted extra from the musical Hair. Next to this shot was a teensy-weensy picture of "Ginger," or "It," the long-awaited and mystery-shrouded invention of "NH inventor Dean Kamen," as he is known in these here parts. The world-shaking invention turns out to be — ta-dah! — a scooter. Quick: somebody rewrite the bloody history books.

On Wednesday, poor old Yasser continued to feel the glow of Israeli disapproval — "Israel Strikes Close to Arafat," wrote the Globe. "Hits 100 Yards from His Office." Significantly, the Palestinian leader’s water cooler was damaged beyond repair in the attacks. We also learned that "Bush Takes Aim at Assets of Hamas." This news, apparently, sent Palestinian militants screaming, beating their chests, and fleeing for the hills of Tora Bora. Speaking of which, there were a few bright spots in our own humble War on Terror. "10 Qaeda leaders reported killed," the Globe bubbled. Ah, but wait: the first victim of war, as we all know, is coverage of the Big Dig. The second is truth: "US Official Says a Ruse Is Possible." The article reported, "A defense official raised the possibility that Al Qaeda could be mounting a disinformation campaign." No! Next to this piece was the heartwarming news that "Bruins Beat Atlanta 3-2," though it remained a distinct possibility that Atlanta had beaten the Bruins 3-2, or that the two teams hadn’t played at all. Stay posted.

America suffered its worst casualties of the war so far as the oxymoronic (or just moronic) scourge of "friendly fire" reared its ugly head again, killing three US Special Forces troops — one of them, Daniel Petithory, 32, a Massachusetts native. "Fatal Error," lamented Thursday’s Herald, while the Globe went with the more circumspect "Errant US Bomb Kills 3 Soldiers." Five anti-Taliban Afghans also died in the mishap, and a dozen US troops were injured, as was interim Afghan leader Hamid Karzai. The feared Taliban, meanwhile, has failed to inflict a single serious casualty on US forces. Who needs enemies? "Bin Laden Hunt Enters Mountains," the Globe also advised us. Reports that hundreds of Afghan opposition troops were seen trundling up the slopes of Tora Bora on NH inventor Dean Kamen’s super-scooter could not be confirmed.

Friday rolled around with the news that the maniacal Mullah Mohammed Omar was backpedaling slightly on his previous promises to fight America until the last drop of Taliban blood has been spilled blah blah blah. "Taliban Leader Tries for Deal," reported the Globe. " Surrender Near," chirped the Herald. Defense Secretary Donald Rumsfeld reportedly responded to the Taliban’s insistence that Omar be left to "live in dignity" with a statement that conveyed, essentially, the sentiment "fat fucking chance." News that our very own Belmont is a hotbed of kinky suburban sex continued to crawl along the bottom of the Herald’s front pages. "FBI Eyes National Link to Alleged Belmont Brothel," the Herald declared, showing remarkable headline restraint. "Authorities are also probing whether the Belmont operation may be tied to a Vermont teen hooker ring ..." Hard to get too steamy about this news, though — not when it was topped by the shot of a flag-draped coffin, containing the body of "one of three American soldiers killed by an errant bomb in Afghanistan," arriving at a German air base. The temperature in Boston, meanwhile, was expected to top 60 degrees.

The spring of our disgruntlement?