For most of the last five or eight weeks, we’ve had sufficient mojo with Continental that our flights have been in First Class. This is good for all sorts of reasons, but the biggest one is the aggregate: it turns 3 hours of discomfort and annoyance into a relatively benign nap-snack-and-cocktail event. Flying still sucks, but the suck is muffled by the increased personal space, free liquor, and somewhat passable food. Also in front, the aforementioned increase in space means that even very, um, girthful companions don’t encroach on your own sovereign zone, so you win again.

Also — and this is the key part — one’s seatmates up front tend to be of a slightly different group than the random mingling of hoi polloi found in coach. It’s not a socioeconomic thing, at least not purely; most First Class fliers didn’t buy First Class tickets. Front cabins are dominated by upgraded frequent fliers who — yes — do tend to have decent jobs, and often wear fancy watches, but the important difference is attitude about flight. We do this a lot. We’re seated quickly, don’t annoy the attendants or each other, etc. In back, you run the risk of chatty Cathy babbling about her first flight, her boyfriend, her grandchildren, her dog, The fucking Secret, or whatever. In front, this usually doesn’t happen. We sit, listen to our iPods, read books, or work on our laptops.

Given all that, then, imagine our shock and horror upon discovering that, on Friday last, our seatmate was (a) dressed like a middle-aged goth pimp, in black denim, a studded belt from Motley Crue’s yard sale, and an 80s-riffic pinstriped shirt and (b) intending to pass his 3 hour flight perusing not one but TWO classy publications: Penthouse and Hustler, which were the only items he carried aboard.

Really? You mean it, Huggy Bear? What the fuck, man?

We’ve got nothing against porn, but Christ Almighty, buddy, there’s a time and a place. Someone could passably read Playboy in public — they have been, at least in years past, one of the great American magazines, and published no end of strong writing. Sure, there are pretty naked girls, but there really ARE articles in there. With PimpMan’s choices, though, no articles were on offer — or, rather, certainly no articles written for or by persons who do not move their lips when they read, or extending beyond a paragraph or two attached to shots of a positively gynecological nature. He made some attempts to shield the magazine from the attendant when she came by — which was often, as there were only 2 rows in First — but when he thought he was “safe,” he was holding them like one might read the Economist.

(He came aboard with a co-worker, who was seated across the aisle. Their conversation dried up once he realized what Pimpy was reading.)