Most mornings I wake up my older son by barging into his bedroom and playing Stairway To Heaven. Badly.
I never really cared for STH. I never cared enough about it to loathe it, either. I caution my Intertunnel friends that becoming completely, monomaniacally interested in persons and things you dislike will make you crazy, and make you seem so to others, to the detriment of your original cause. Remember the words of the prophet Lebowski: You’re not wrong, Walter; you’re just an ***hole.
Anyhow, I made my son learn it, and I learned it at the same time to make sure he did. It’s a terrific running joke at our house. He’s a proper teenager, and always asleep when he’s not lying around. He opens one eye and glares at me most satisfactorily while I hack away at it. He used to hate it for its own sake, but now he hates to hear me do it because it’s irritating to hear me slog through it, as he can bang it out effortlessly.
I promise not to get any better at it, son.