Fashionable Words 11-13-20 I was almost fifty years old when I added the word sartorial to my supposedly-superior vocabulary. If I am not mistaken, I was wearing on that occasion the legendary T-shirt and jeans, or something of that sort or of those means. Nicely-tailored lexical item that I was fortunate to befriend, for it even provoked rumblings in the well-worn memory banks. So, like, I was truly a motley teen, in myriad ways. I even had a sartrian phase, though I would've spelled it Sartrean. I'd barely begun to shave on a daily basis, yet I was reading, what was the title? ... The Transcendental Ego I do believe. Uh, no, sorry, that should be The Transcendence of the Ego. Get beyond it and for that matter your self while you're at it. There's a difference, a coated voice says, you dressed-down dope. Next, little hope for you, averred a former college roommate upon our unplanned reunion, you still take the prize for worst-dressed person in the room and in the class. And on did he babble about some disheveled playwright from Spain named Alfonso Sastre who sewed together versions of Irish plays and came to publish dramas in New York even though in Spanish plus a few scissored translations with such endearing titles as "Death Thrust" and "Tragic Prelude". Morbid stage mood indeed. At least you've avoided that level, mumbled, decades later, my exquisitely-clothed physical therapist while he tried to sort out my real sore maybe torn tendons, as I lay in my grey jump suit, adding that I was lucky, sort of, not to have aggravated the sartorius, a connective upper-leg muscle about which I learned absolutely nothing in my philosophy, drama, and anatomy courses.