The other night I was waiting in line inside George’s Greek Grill, or rather the West Hollywood branch (8807 Santa Monica Blvd.). It’s right next to a popular gay bar, and of course is part of the whole Santa Monica Blvd. party-boy strip. There were five or six guys in front of me, one brawny and bare-chested, and they were flaunting their sexual energy, to put it mildly. Dry humping, grab-assing, hormones, whatever. Unspoken thematic undercurrent: “We’re here because we’re hungry, of course, but we’re in the mood to joyfully express other things while we decide what to order because…well, because we fucking feel like it.” I was just staring at the menu and figuring this too shall pass. Then I noticed a guy off to the side giving another guy a kind of grinding lapdance, and then he stood up and started performing a simulated blowjob. Inner dialogue as I waited: “I like erotic abandon as much as you guys do but is there any chance you could give this shit a slight rest? This isn’t a fucking bar — it’s a place to order and eat and chill out. The bar is next door.” I really like that restaurant too — the food is cheap but quite good.