Ampliatio (am’-pli-a’-ti-o): Using the name of something or someone before it has obtained that name or after the reason for that name has ceased. A form of epitheton.
They called him “Pot Head Pete” in the 60s. Pot was illegal everywhere, but he didn’t care. He bought his pot from a guy named Carlos who was Colombian and had connections that went all the way to the top. Pot Head would buy his dope by the pond and share it with his friends. Pot Head was from a very wealthy family. His weekly allowance was what the rest of us got in a year. In summer, we would go to his beach house at the shore and run wild on pot on the boardwalk at Seaside Heights. The “Wild Mouse” was the best ride. It ran on a course like a roller coaster. It was set up so it came to curves in the track really fast like you were going to fly off the track, but at the last second it would whip through the curve, due to clamps holding the “Mouse” on the tracks. It was scary as hell—on pot, it was even scarier. We loved it, and we loved Pot Head for his generosity. Once, he took us all to Miami Beach. We flew down and spent Christmas vacation eating like pigs, hanging out on the beach, and chasing girls, which we often caught. We illegally chartered a boat to Cuba. It was all-black and had machine guns scattered around. The Captain even let us fire one. I shot into the water and killed a porpoise by mistake. Everybody laughed. Havana was was even crazier than Miami. We were walking down the street smoking Cohibas when a guy wearing a beret came up to me and asked for a light. He said he was headed for Bolivian, and I would hear about it soon. Later, I learned he was Che. My affection for Mohitos developed on that trip. Rum and pot—a religious experience.
Now, it is 2024. Pot Head Pete is still a “head,” but not a pot head. He is head of one of the largest AI development companies in the world. The “Pot” is gone, but the “Head” remains. The first time I went to see him at work, I asked for “Pot Head Pete.” I thought he was far enough down the straight road to claim the name. He has a beautiful wife and seven children. He gives generously to charity and goes the church every Sunday. Also, pot is legal in New York. But he got edgy, and told me never to do that again.
Pot Head’s not so much fun any more. I can understand why. With all his responsibilities he has to tone it down. I, on the other hand, at the age of 78, was still running wild. I still go to Seaside Heights every year and ride the Wild Mouse, and I go to Miami too, where I have an oceanfront condo in South Beach. I am an artist. I’ve made millions and million painting portraits of rich and famous people. My last commission was Elon Musk. I was tempted to paint him with a wire up his ass, plugged into a wall socket. But instead, I painted his goofy smile.
My current commission is Pot Head!
I painted him in a dirty Greatful Dead T-shirt, with beard, ponytail, and earring. I showed to him and he pulled out a switchblade and slashed it to bits and had it burned. He handed me a picture of him in a custom tailored suit and said “Paint this shithead!” I was hurt. I squirted a tube of cyan in his face—it was acrylic so it wan’t dangerous. He punched me in the stomach and face. I stabbed him with a palette knife and that was it.
All those years. All those memorable experiences erased by my out-of-control temper. I went straight to the airport and took off for Costa Rica—no extradition. I have a beach house, a girlfriend and a machine gun. I think about Pot Head every once-in-awhile. I can’t believe he turned out to be such an asshole,
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)
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