MILITARY STYLE T SHIRTS. MILITARY STYLE

Military style t shirts. Gildan heavy cotton t shirts.

Military Style T Shirts


military style t shirts
    t shirts
  • A short-sleeved casual top, generally made of cotton, having the shape of a T when spread out flat
  • (t-shirt) jersey: a close-fitting pullover shirt
  • A T-shirt (T shirt or tee) is a shirt which is pulled on over the head to cover most of a person's torso. A T-shirt is usually buttonless and collarless, with a round neck and short sleeves.
  • (T Shirt (album)) T Shirt is a 1976 album by Loudon Wainwright III. Unlike his earlier records, this (and the subsequent 'Final Exam') saw Wainwright adopt a full blown rock band (Slowtrain) - though there are acoustic songs on T-Shirt, including a talking blues.

military cool
military cool
A Post Modern Occupation..... On Friday 09.02.07, Jerusalem’s old city was declared a military ‘no go’ area after violent exchanges between Israeli Defence Force (IDF) troops and Israeli Arab (Palestinian) youths worsened. Residents of the holy city have of late experienced a period of relative calm, but recent developments suggest a superficial peace: Israeli excavation beneath the Dome of the Rock complex is steadily chipping away at the city’s precarious foundations. While for Muslims the rock beneath the dome is where, according to Islam, the prophet Mohammed ascended to Heaven, for Jews this is the supposed site of King Solomon’s temple, previously destroyed and supplanted by the Islamic Dome of the Rock. The ‘wailing wall’ represents the only surviving remnants of this temple as evidenced to date. Jews believe that the rebuilding of the temple will precede the return of the messiah. Muslims believe that the collapse of the dome of the rock will put apocalyptic events in motion. After Muslim midday prayers on Friday, continued Israeli excavation work beneath the dome of the rock complex inevitably sparked a riot. Troops moved in, firing plastic bullets and tear gas at stone throwing youths, even storming and tear gassing protestors in the Dome of the Rock complex itself where, apparently, at a loss to find rubble ammunition in the austere grounds protestors took to throwing anything at hand, including shoes. On the following Sunday entrance to the old city itself was still restricted by the IDF; only residents, Israeli Arabs above the age of 45, and, evidently, internationals were allowed in. Many of the old city’s narrow backstreets were strewn with stones from Friday’s clashes and alleyways leading to extremist Israeli settlements were heavily guarded by IDF soldiers. Jerusalem is strange; the divide between old and new more so. Politically far removed from any West Bank city, there is a completely different atmosphere, perhaps one that belies the belittlement of Arabs with Jerusalem ID’s and their relative freedom compared to that of fellow Palestinians trapped behind the Apartheid wall just minutes away. Jerusalem’s old city is perhaps the only place in the world you can cross the Middle East / Europe divide in a matter of minutes, and so, from a western point of view, cross the local portal between eyed curiosity and anonymity. There couldn’t be a starker contrast leaving behind the complex maze of narrow heaving, bazaared streets of the Arab quarter and stepping into the uncluttered space of restauranted courtyards, art galleried parades, and cappuccino coffee shopped terraces of the Jewish quarter. Just a few streets away, back in the Arab quarter, extremist Jews hold out in occupied, backstreet apartments, conspicuously signposted by Star of David flags, draped and unmoving in the breezeless streets, barbed wire tangled across rooftops and balconies, and CCTV surveillance systems aimed accusingly upon Arab neighbourhoods. These Jews, many from Europe and the US, may have a zealous, even romantically misplaced, disposition for staking their claim to their utopian promised city, but rhetoric fuelled, barbed wired assault on the Arab quarter is an outwardly belligerent attack on the values and aesthetics of a once thriving old city culture. These implanted strongholds are not only dividing neighbourhoods but the minds and aspirations of a once prosperous people. Back in the Jewish quarter there is a different vibe altogether; none of the barbed wire, none of the despondent apathy so apparent among many of the Arabs, more the kitsch banter of pasty tourists perusing ‘jerUSAlem’ hats and t-shirts, and the flash of instamatic cameras unconsciously recording the history of a cultural whitewash, a little lost with every shutter release, every oblivious smile. On the same day as the Jerusalem riots, we were in Hebron where it also kicked off. We were supposed to meet up with a demonstration in support of Palestinian families effectively imprisoned in Tal Rumeida, a now predominantly Jewish area, still home to a fast dwindling number of Palestinians. Largely due to the failure of the Israeli state to intervene in problems of a racially prejudiced nature, Tal Rumeidan Palestinians are experiencing harassment from Jewish extremist settlers, often violently so, as well as segregation and difficulty of movement in and out of their neighbourhoods. These Palestinians have, astoundingly, been completely banned from driving cars?!? We did not manage to meet up with the demonstration as we were stopped from entering Tal Rumeida, the checkpoint conveniently closed by the Israelis as we turned up, so, instead, we spent the afternoon with the Hebronites under incursion from the Israeli military. There had been problems in the city the day before, also due to the excavation work beneath the Dome of the Rock, so tensions were expected to flare again after Friday’s Muslim prayers. In typical fashion, IDF
Fire Pals. Sagehen Fire. Sawtooth National Forest. Idaho. July 1981.
Fire Pals. Sagehen Fire. Sawtooth National Forest. Idaho. July 1981.
Photo by Paul Sever. From left to right: Donald Barclay, Paul Spillers, Gene Stone. Gene Stone is a favorite from my fire days. A distance runner from Portland, Oregon who attended Boise State University on a full-ride track scholarship, Gene was quick thinking, athletic, confident, competent, and irresistible to women. That is to say, he was (and is) pretty much everything I never was. And never will be. Gene went on to work as an Alaska smokejumper for many years. He and his wife now teach school in Alaska. One time, when the crew was on a Bureau of Land Management brush fire near Emmett, Idaho, Gene and I were sent off with some BLM wanker who was supposed to lead us to a hot spot that needed knocking down. There turned out to be nothing to the hot spot, so eventually the BLM guy wandered off, leaving Gene and me alone and out of radio contact. The wind started to pick up, and soon the two of us had more fire than we could handle. We dug a quick scratch line and tried to burn out, but the main fire came right over our line. There wasn't so much fire that it was likely to kill us, but there was enough to make us not want to stand around and find out. We had the choice of 1) deploying our fire shelters, 2) trying to dash through the oncoming fire into the black, or 3) running for the ridge. The latter it was. Off we went. When you are running (possibly) for your life, there is little that is more discouraging than running with a gifted track athlete who happens to be in top condition. I was in decent shape, but Gene left me so far in the dust that I felt like I was barely moving, that the fire must be burning the covers off my canteens. When I finally caught up with Gene at the top of the ridge, the son of a bitch wasn't even breathing hard. I looked back to see that I had left the fire far below me. About the time I was done panting and retching, the BLM wanker came moseying up. Then the helicopter with the fire boss on board flew over. Over the wanker's radio we could hear the fire boss saying, "We could put this thing out if we can get those hotshots to keep their hands off their fusees and quit leaning on their shovels." When the helicopter came closer, Gene gave the fire boss the finger. Later on, the fire boss told our foreman about Gene's love gesture. Neither boss was any too happy with Gene. We always referred to that fire as the "Stonefinger Incident." At the time of the Stonefinger Incident, my sister was taking an entomology course at Boise State. She had learned that there was some question about whether walking sticks (a type of insect) were found in Idaho. I told her that I thought they were, as I was sure I'd seen them on fires in Idaho. Towards the end of the Stonefinger Fire, I was sitting on the ground, waiting for a ride back to fire camp, when I felt something crawling on my hand. Sure enough, it was a walking stick. I collected it in a plastic bag and gave it to my sister when I got back home. She gave it to her professor, who was impressed enough that he later lead an expedition to the hills north of Emmett to find more genuine Idaho walking sticks. Paul Spillers was our squad boss in 1981. Originally from Kansas, Paul had fought fire in Arizona for several years before coming to the Boise Hotshots. Paul was smart, hardworking, and woods wise. I always enjoyed being on his squad. Paul eventually got a geology degree from Boise State University and was working as a geologist in Boise the last time I saw him. There I am in all my Nomex glory. Nomex is the fire-resistant material used to make the yellow shirts and green pants you see in these photos. The shirts Paul and I wear are typically filthy. The dark black marks on our shoulders are from the straps of the web gear we wore on the fire line. Gene's shirt is suspiciously clean. He must have traded in his dirty shirt for a clean one at the fire-camp supply tent. We always wore bandanas because they offered some protection from smoke and dust. Plus they are great for robbing stagecoaches. In Southern California they discourage firefighters from wearing red or blue bandanas because of the gang associations. They use a lot of prison crews in Southern California, so I guess it could be a problem. I never worried about it the few times I fought fire in that part of the world. You might notice that Gene, Paul, and I have label-maker labels on the front of our hard hats; these labels give our names, weights (for figuring helicopter loads), and the name of our crew. The intense heat of fires regularly melts the labels off hard hats. We wore fiberglass hard hats because plastic hard hats melt and metal hard hats get too hot. At times we worked in extremely intense heat. I've had the water in my canteens become too hot to drink. Some guys claimed that their canteen water actually boiled, though I can't swear to that personally. The Boise Hotshots wore green hard hats, while our sister crew, the Sawtooth, wore blue.

military style t shirts
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