courtesy thetangential.com

I have a confession to make: I still watch Nashville.

I realize this hardly makes me a singular phenomenon; last week’s ratings indicate I was joined by five and a half million. The reluctance of my admission finds its basis in the direction the show has taken since around the second half of the first season, when the narrative’s musical focus was usurped by suds: Rayna’s failed marriage (that was quick!); Teddy’s transgressions turning from financial to sexual; Juliette taking showers with a dude named Dante, for Music City’s sake. I considered dropping the recording from my DVR list several times, most of them coinciding with the appearances of Avery’s childish pout, which could have generated its own drinking game.

But there remained one reason for me to tune in each week. Okay, two: Connie Britton’s hair counts as both a reason and a work of art. Reason number two? The show’s resident addict, Deacon Claybourne.

Grab a turkey leg and come read the rest over here!