CHARLIE VARON IS bringing reactionary talk-show host Rush Limbaugh to the Marsh in San Francisco this week. It's the 10th anniversary of his groundbreaking solo show Rush Limbaugh in Night School, of course, and Limbaugh won't be there in person. Which is good, because no matter what changes Varon's Limbaugh has experienced during the past decade, he can't be worse than the fat-mouthed media creation. In fact, when the show opens, we find Limbaugh looking over his shoulder at plummeting ratings and the threat posed by a Spanish-speaking competitor. To face challenge, he signs up for a Spanish class at the New School for Social Research. He promptly falls in love with a fugitive Weather woman, and gravity – his aggressively annoying confidence – begins to fail.

What a difference a decade makes, eh? In 1994 many people saw Limbaugh not as a right-wing nut but as a parody of one. Guess again – when it comes to parody these days, Limbaugh's dealing the cards as he continues to treat truth like a fashion accessory. And lest anyone think his reckless disregard for what was once called reality will someday bring him down, consider his recent exposure as a drug addict – no matter that he preached that drug addicts should be locked away forever.

Was this the death blow to a reckless rabble-rouser? Well, not exactly. In fact, Limbaugh's ratings are fine. The Weathermen enjoy a somewhat better rep in these parts than Limbaugh. Still, thanks to the invasion of Iraq, the fine Oscar-nominated film The Weather Underground, by Sam Green and Bill Siegel, and the arrest of the last SLA fugitives, old-school radicals have a kind of visibility they haven't enjoyed in years. These changes will no doubt shape the reprised Rush Limbaugh in Night School – reflecting a genuine desire on Varon's part to examine as-yet-unexplored ways to reshape the future. On the one hand, when one examines the state of things, it's difficult not to believe tried-and-true strategies have failed us.

It's also difficult to believe there are people who claim to understand and embrace what Limbaugh espouses. My old friend Eddie used to swear Limbaugh was the creation of cannabis comics Cheech and Chong. "You know," he'd drawl in unmistakable Brooklynese, "they'd done Dave and his bong-loving roommate to death, and their career was in the tank. They hadda get new material." Overdone Dave was the hapless stoner with a pocket full of dope, cops on his trail, and a friend too wasted to open up and provide him with safety ("Who's there?" "Dave." "Dave's not here," and so on). The sketch was funny, obvious, and perfect for Eddie, whose take on life was complex in its absolute lack of complexity. In his mind, Limbaugh was the bastard spawn of C&C's mutant bong. Period.

When I knew him, Eddie was never far from the AM radio in an old slant six Dodge, and he'd get excited when Limbaugh came on. I tried to explain that Limbaugh was a self-absorbed fat mouth ignored by right-thinking people, and even if he wasn't, he was a vile, small-minded demagogue. Eddie, who'd always distrusted my serious side, would look at me like I was so dumb I couldn't count. "Are you some kind of narc?" he'd ask. In Eddie's dreamy gospel, Limbaugh was played by Tommy Chong, Cheech provided the bloodthirsty army of ditto-heads, and if that was confusing, the secret was hidden in a four-letter word: "Rush!" he'd shout at me, like communication depended on volume alone. "Like when you take LSD and that feeling surges through your body – the rush. You think this guy's for real? No way. Only Cheech and Chong could dream him up."

Eddie believed this, and I didn't, but in his defense, Limbaugh's sinister world of feminazis and miscreant liberals is about as believable as Joseph Smith's tale of gold plates beneath a rock on a mountain on a dark and stormy night. Eddie's comic conspiracy looks like common sense when stacked up against that.

Despite the dire predictions of others, I rose above confrontation; never once did I consider Limbaugh and his greedy dimwits to be more threatening than any of Eddie's other hallucinations. Night School is smart and funny, a good opportunity for Varon to show off talent equal to that of Spalding Gray. But that was 1994 – the dot-com boom was cresting the horizon, and give or take a South American death squad or two, things didn't seem so bad. I laughed at Limbaugh and then filed him away with lone assassins, Idaho militias, Tony Danza, and Supertramp fans.

Perhaps I spent too much time in the '80s listening to Debbie Harry singing, "Dreaming is free." Or maybe I just refused to accept that there are powerful forces bent on making ours a dream-free world. Had I understood the danger posed by Limbaugh and his dimwits in 1994, I'd have been forced to agitate and rage, scattering crowds and spoiling fun everywhere, while San Franciscans clocked dollars and partied like there was no tomorrow. I'd have cracked up. That didn't happen – I had serious questions, but it was easier to pretend I was as ignorant as the next guy.

I laughed at Limbaugh in '94, and no doubt I'll laugh again this time around. Still, if I believe in anything at all, it's that the only thing funny about Limbaugh is his lame attempt to score 40,000 OxyContin pills at one time. I also believe it's funny that Limbaugh – a Bush cheerleader from day one – can't face our new dark ages straight, although I think the joke's on us. Varon, no doubt, will draw another bucket of hope from the well that nurtures his soul – he's got the long view wired. In any case, I plan to laugh my ass off at the Marsh on Saturday night at Varon's latest version of Limbaugh. Who knows when I'll get the chance again.

You can find the blog TommyT's Extreme Measures at www.artsjournal.com/tommyt.

E-mail J.H. Tompkins and read his blog.