Photograph: Chris Buck/The GuardianĪs he would acknowledge, Strauss is no switchboard-illuminating beauty himself. “I can relate to people on a human level.” Constantly, wherever I went, whenever I walked into a room, these little lights would go on on a switchboard in my head.” The switchboard is still there, he says, only now anyone can illuminate it anyone interesting. But I think that part of my brain was trained for years. Even in, like, a work meeting – if there was a woman in that meeting, everything I said was for her, to get her phone number afterwards.”
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Or how to lure her away from her boyfriend, what have you. “The old me would have been performing everything for her attraction,” Strauss says when we’re out of earshot. Then he chats with her, about nothing much. He chats with the tourists, about nothing much.
Game-klaxon! I watch to see how Strauss will react to her, only he doesn’t. The woman is in her 20s – tanned, blond, wearing denim short-shorts. While waiting for his drink, Strauss falls into conversation with a group that includes two middle-aged tourists and a young woman. He fits right in, this lazy afternoon, with the crowd hanging around outside a Malibu coffee shop. The shiny suits are gone in favour of a Pacific-side uniform of surfer T, loose wristbands, espadrilles. Now, he arranges seminars for them on how to become better men. It used to be that Strauss arranged seminars for men on how to become better players. Whereas he once lived in a Hollywood man-mansion that (by his own account) often had used condoms floating in its jacuzzi, he now lives in relative domestic seclusion in Malibu. Maybe not change-his-name-to-Clive different, but he’s a husband, and a father, and stupidly in love on both fronts.
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