Mr. Rodman’s Neighborhood

Dennis Rodman hops out of a dark SUV--not his Humvee with the naked ladies painted on it, a different one--and saunters up to his pink stucco beach house. The outfit is T-shirt casual, a blue baseball cap perched on his chemically yellowed hair. As he opens the garage refrigerator, he lets out a couple of wild war whoops, a portent of the night to come.

Within minutes, the fire pit on his patio burns brightly, and so does the party. Sugar Ray’s hit song “Fly” booms down the street.

It is 12:45 a.m.

At a time when most people are at least thinking of sleep, Rodman is ready to rock. Now that his basketball career has flamed out, the rebounding legend sports a new distinction, and it isn’t another hair color or body piercing: Newport Beach police get more complaints about Rodman’s house than any other spot in the city. More than any restaurant. More than any bar.

Parties on the weekend, parties during the week. Impromptu parties born after midnight that boogie on to 6 a.m. Nearly 70 police visits in two years, more than $3,000 in fines for violating noise ordinances--nothing stops those parties.

It’s too much for some neighbors in west Newport Beach, a community thick with shoulder-to-shoulder duplexes that often are rented out during the summer. If you sneeze, your neighbor will hear, and at Rodman’s parties, people are doing a lot more than sneezing.

“It was just awful,” huffed Michal Poplawski, 56, a Phoenix resident who has been bringing her family to Newport Beach on vacation for more than two decades. “I don’t understand why he should be allowed to treat people that way.”

Now, this was never the quietest corner of Newport to begin with. Not the swanky sections like Lido Isle or Linda Isle, populated by silver-haired real estate moguls with yachts bobbing at their private docks. No, long before the coming of the ex-NBA star, Mr. Rodman’s Neighborhood was a beachfront party zone.

And thus some of Rodman’s full-time neighbors are surprisingly insouciant about the din. West Newport isn’t for the sensitive sleeper, they say. Some, instead of complaining about his parties, are going to them.

“This is party central, and 48th Street is the 50-yard line,” said Doug Wagner, 57, who lives across the street.

And, despite all the hoo-ha about his early-morning revelry, Rodman’s not such a bad guy, some folks here say, making time for coffee with an elderly householder, plunking down $20 for a lemonade at a kids’ stand.

Is this the same Rodman who drove the retiree next door into a photographic frenzy, snapping a whole roll of film chronicling the post-party trash?

The snapshots show overflowing brown paper bags and boxes heaped against Herb Marshall’s house in the narrow alley he shares with his celebrity neighbor--while Rodman’s side was kept pristine. The bags (they indicate, by the way, that Rodman uses HomeGrocer.com) spilled their contents for a good 20 feet along Marshall’s wall. And they reeked of rotting food.

Marshall finally spent $6,000 this summer to erect a 6-foot-high brick wall along the skinny space between his house and the one Rodman owns to keep the garbage--and Rodman groupies--on the other side.

Still, party-goers park in front of Marshall’s garage, blocking his exit. When he complains to Rodman--who declined to be interviewed for this story--”he says, ‘Call a tow truck. It’s not mine,’ ” Marshall said. “He takes no responsibility. He shows such total disregard, total disrespect.”

The parties could dent Marshall financially as well. He lives in the upstairs unit of his duplex, renting out the floor below. But he almost lost a week’s rental this summer after an incoming tenant from Texas found out the house was next to Rodman’s. The woman tried to find another place, but the city was booked for the summer.

She is yet another of the out-of-towners who shell out $2,000-plus a week for a Pacific beachfront escape from noise and bustle--but may not find that sought-after peace and quiet. These are the ones who sleep--or try to sleep--closest to Casa de Rodman, the ones most likely to make a bleary-eyed grab for the phone and vent their outrage to the police.

On the Poplawskis’ first morning, the family, babies and all, was awakened at 4 a.m., said Michal Poplawski. Five mornings later, the walls trembled with reverberating bass when police showed up at 4:30 a.m.--for the second time that night.

Rodman seemed unmoved by the family’s sleep deprivation. When officers arrived July 22 to investigate her call, Rodman told them, according to the police report, that he didn’t care about disturbing those neighbors because they’re “just renters.”

Rodman, who won seven consecutive NBA rebounding titles during his lengthy career, has now shelled out a city record in noise fines. Still, the district attorney decided last month not to prosecute him for disturbing the peace. Too little evidence, officials said. Neighbors call police, but most refuse to sign a complaint. Or they’re from out of town and won’t return for a trial. But police aren’t giving up.

Patrol officers like to keep tabs on 6-foot-9-inch Rodman during their regular rounds. “It’s like we would for any local drunk,” said Sgt. Mike McDermott.

The action often starts when Rodman is out at local nightspots, McDermott said. After last call, Rodman, who was released by the Dallas Mavericks in March, invites the bar patrons over to his place.

One officer recently spotted him stockpiling cases of liquor and hot dogs in his garage. Time to get ready for a party and those early-morning calls. “He’s a personable guy,” McDermott said. “And he’s a great guy when he’s sober. But he can be downright mean when he’s drunk.”

Last month, Rodman, 39, pleaded guilty to driving under the influence of alcohol in Costa Mesa. Along with paying the $2,050 fine, the former Laker, Bull, Spur, Piston and Maverick must attend a three-month alcohol program. He was prohibited from drinking during that time. Soon after his day in court, he went on an overseas trip.

His parties also produce a share of serious police complaints--from guests. A stolen cell phone, a stolen Rolex watch. A 9-mm waved in someone’s face by another guest during an argument. And a woman who accused Rodman of drugging and raping her at his house in August 1999. The district attorney declined to file charges, citing lack of evidence.

It’s all a little too close for comfort, in the minds of some neighbors. And in Mr. Rodman’s Neighborhood, things are very close.

Like the other homes in his neighborhood, Rodman’s two-story house has no frontyard. The backyard is a patio, not much bigger than the free-throw lane Rodman patrolled during his basketball days--and beyond that, the beach. Security cameras attached to his house keep a watchful eye.

An inviting “Club 4809” is etched on the front gate. On the second-floor balcony facing the ocean, a neon sign announces, “Open.”

Inside the house, Rodman’s taste runs to Art Deco furniture, under cloud-painted ceilings. In a month or so, the general public may be able to get a peek at Rodman’s life and furnishings on his Web site, https://www.RodmanTV.com. People with nothing better to do could then watch a stream of live video from events at his house, or peruse the journal he keeps about his basketball career.

They would have seen some interesting moments had the Web site been operational one recent morning, a few hours before the sun made an appearance. Something like this:

As Pearl Jam blares from Rodman’s stereo, party-goers head down the street, some of them yelling incomprehensibly; new ones arrive.

A white subcompact drops off a 20-ish blond wearing a red pullover jacket; the driver takes off, in search of a parking spot. Unsteady on her feet, the woman pulls down her khaki shorts and urinates on the street.

A cruising beach patrol comes upon the scene, its headlights catching several couples on the sand. This is technically a no-no--the beach is closed at night. Two couples dart toward Rodman’s house, one woman struggling to straighten her blouse as she stumbles in the sand.

But most of the action is inside, along with Rodman. He doesn’t always remain in the midst of his own bashes, though; guests say he sometimes will disappear by shutting himself in his bedroom.

And after the sun rises, he at times can be seen cleaning the barbecue for the next round. That’s what he was doing one recent morning at 6 a.m. when Virginia tourist Sonni Tower, her bowl of breakfast cereal in hand, found him after a sleepless party night.

Tower gave Rodman a plain-spoken opinion about his ear-blistering bash and lack of neighborly consideration. Rodman’s response, she said: “You should have come and partied with us.”