Hudson: He's mellowed but hasn't let up.

In his new, no-holds-barred book, Dairy of a Punk: Life and Death in the Pagans, Mike Hudson lets you know what he really thinks about the people he encountered during his run with the notorious punk band that first formed in 1977 and continues to get the reissue treatment to this day. He calls Pere Ubu singer David Thomas a "porky prima donna" and refers to the members of the Police, for whom the Pagans opened at the old Pirates Cove, "a bunch of pricks." Former WMMS programmer John Gorman is a "cocksucker," and From the Velvets to the Voidoids scribe Clinton Heylin, who included a chapter about Cleveland punk in his book, is "some idiot Brit author."

And yet Hudson, whose demeanor these days is a lot more low-key than it was back then, reserves a special place in his heart for Cleveland.

"It's great; I really love Cleveland," he says over a few beers at the hotel bar at the downtown Hyatt on the day the water main burst. "I grew up on the East Side, and it's my favorite place in the world. It's home to me. I'm always amazed at how nice people here are."

Hudson, who could almost pass for a college professor with his glasses and sandy brown sweater, came through town to drop off copies of his book at independent stores (Mac's Backs, This Way Out and Visible Voice) in advance of its distribution to the major chains. He was more than willing to discuss his sordid past he documents in Diary of a Punk.

While the Pagans and the Dead Boys (Hudson writes that Dead Boys' singer Stiv Bators was "the greatest rock 'n' roll frontman I've ever seen") were essentially brothers in arms, the Pagans were far more primal than either Rocket from the Tombs or its offshoot Pere Ubu, the two bands most often associated with Cleveland's punk past.

"We all had a real attitude," Hudson says. "Crocus [Ubu's Thomas] had an attitude, but it was much different. We were pretty much like, "Fuck you.' You could be with us and be our friend or fuck you."

That attitude comes across loud and clear in Dairy of a Punk which, as much as it's a history of Hudson's life in and out of the Pagans, paints a not-so-pretty picture of Cleveland. But Hudson maintains the city's depressed economy was what gave rise to its now legendary punk rock scene.

"It was certainly, no matter how you look at it, along with London and New York, one of the top places where [punk] developed," Hudson says. "There was no infrastructure of clubs and tours and radio stations and publications. It just didn't exist. You were just making it up. I don't think it could have happened anyplace other than Cleveland. Why didn't it happen in Chicago? The only place that was close was Detroit. We played a lot of shows up there."

Hudson writes extensively about playing the old WHK Auditorium (which now houses the Agora) and renting the place out for a mere "buck fifty." The ability to play there and at places in the Flats that would welcome any band that could bring a crowd, enabled bands like the Pagans to survive.

"We were way downtrodden," Hudson recalls. "In 1978, we became the first major American city since the Great Depression to default. Most of our dads were blue-collar guys. Not only did your dad work at this particular factory but your grandfather did. They all went out of business in a period of about four years. Our fathers were devastated. All of a sudden, they were on the street. Guys killed themselves. My father's hair turned white when his place closed. We all saw that and were 20 years old and were expected to go into that. Now it's not even there. Kucinich was the mayor. He was almost a communist back then. He was 32 or 33 years old and a real firebrand."

Hudson was a firebrand, too. Between the boozing and brawling, he lived his life on the edge (and at one point even ended up in the hospital because his liver was worn out). While he's certainly mellowed, he hasn't let up. He currently works as a journalist at a muckraking newspaper in Niagara Falls and has had at least one run-in with a group of union cronies who left him battered and beaten (but not broken) after he published an expose about their dirty deeds.

Not that any of this has made him rethink his days of debauchery with the Pagans.

"We did things that maybe we shouldn't have done," he admits. "But I have no real regrets. What would the difference have been, really?"