Since our brains are really overhyped pattern-recognition devices, our species has a tendency to see significance where perhaps there is none. Like when you buy a new car then suddenly, it seems, the same make and model is everywhere – as if your particular purchase somehow unleashed the others from the Guf. You’re like the first Japanese macaque to wash a potato – now they all do it. You’re a trendsetter – or your witnessing a frequency illusion also known by the rather sinister-sounding (or at least extremely German) name Baader-Meinhof Phenomenon.

One would think the phenomenon would eventually wear off but after buying a red and white Mini Cooper several years ago, I’ve never ceased seeing them everywhere. Moreover, when pass other drivers of Minis with the same color scheme we tend to go ape shit, waving at each other like long lost friends or members in some Vonnegut-esque car karass. It’s an informal club and, in my solipsistic mythos, I was always at its center. And then I spied the Minitar.

Now, I’m not merely the driver of a Mini, I’m also a man who happens to be named “Daedalus,” who you might remember from your Comparative Mythology class is the chap that built the labyrinth to contain the Minotaur. So, imagine my delight (and simmering jealousy) upon seeing my car’s clone with cleverly mythological vanity plate that I somehow failed to think of first. Now, I fully expect to see red and white Mini’s with other mythic puns on their plates. Call it Baader-Minihof Phenomemon (insert twee laughter here).

Anyway, the best Greco-Mytho plate-pun I can do at present is “MINIPPE,” a slight misspelling of the name of Naiad Nymph of the River Peneios. And it totally sucks. Sigh.

If you look closely at the photo, you can see my car reflected in the glory of its cherry sheen. Damn you, Minitar!