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I took a moment to introduce myself, then played the tape. Thirty years old, it says a lot about who we used to think we were. As the anthem plays, we see images of old windswept barns, a falling-down shack by the seaside, and at the crest of the song, a long shot of a wind-whipped post in the middle of an empty field. The images are, well, pathetic. The audience laughed a lot and, I hope, forgot that they’d ever seen a nearly naked dancer hanging in the air, although I hadn’t. Still, because I couldn’t be sure, I told a quick story about Mark Messier’s penis. Then I got the heck out.

Later that evening, there was a party, and it was at this party that I met Junior Trudeau. He seemed like a nice guy, I suppose, sparkly and clean, and willing to engage with mostly everyone. At one point, an overly refreshed woman — a Rheostatics fan — came up to me and more or less pushed me against the Darling Trudeau the way one might arrange salt and pepper shakers on a tablecloth. “There!” she said, effusively. “All of Canada,” she continued, pointing at us. “All of Canada, right there.” I wasn’t sure whether to feel flattered or bewildered or embarrassed — truth be told, I felt all three — and I gave Justin a sort of “Hey, what are you gonna do?” shrug, as if he, the famous son of Canada’s most famous man, and me, a rhythm guitar player and acclaimed penis storyteller, were neighbours in the same national firmament. Still, I think he appreciated the gesture. “One more time!” shouted the woman as she called over her friends. “All of Canada … !” But before she could finish, Trudeau announced: “Right! All we need now is to round up some beavers!” The woman fell silent, and waved her friends back to their table.