Every time front man Bob Schneider figures he's had enough of the Scabs, he gets yet another juicy contract offer to bring 'em back one more time. The chunk of cash I saw him flip through before paying off his band at a Satellite gig in the summer was just like the kind of spectacular wad of jack some Enron execs were likely flashing at gentlemen's clubs earlier this year after cashing in their stock. The money's great, but so's the adulation. What rock star's ego wouldn't be caressed by the sight of a jam-packed club full of awestruck fans, many of them wishing they could play horizontal rugby with Bob after the show? There's no reason to think these two gigs will be anything less than New Year's Eve to the power of ten. As one fan said in a recent posting to a Scabs Web site: "Ain't no party like a motherfuckin' Scabs party."