In 1999, Jonathan Ames devoured a slew of P.G. Wodehouse novels, hoping to free himself from depression. It’s an anecdote that makes perfect sense to half the reading public and no sense to the other half. There are roughly two different types of readers: those who read and appreciate P.G. Wodehouse and those who do not. Those of us who read Wodehouse generally agree that he is the funniest writer of all time; so what better way to lift one’s spirits than to read something guaranteed to arouse laughter? I'm not referring to the sort of laughter one receives from, say, a David Sedaris book or even a Woody Allen flick. Aside from the fact that Wodehouse is funnier than both, the world he creates possesses its own highly fulfilling philosophy, a fortifying message embodied by fearless, carefree characters such as Psmith and Uncle Fred. In short, the novels make you feel good where as most humor makes you feel inadequate.

It’s not clear if the treatment worked for Ames, but it did inspire him to write a novel more or less based on a typical Wodehouse story. Ames’ disposition was certainly cheery on Sunday night at the KGB bar in New York, where he read a few scenes from his latest novel. Wake Up, Sir! is a story about a young, Jewish novelist named Alan Blair who recently read forty-three Wodehouse novels (Wodehouse wrote over ninety) in order to rid himself of an overwhelming sadness.

Blair is melancholic because he hasn’t published in several years, he hasn’t had a girlfriend since that time, he’s an alcoholic and he’s broke. But shortly after finishing his run with Wodehouse, Blair had slipped on a patch of ice walking down Park Avenue and was awarded $250,000 for the ordeal.

Though this didn’t quite make him happy, reading Wodehouse led to the bit of luck that made Blair rich. As a result of saturating his brain with Wodehouse, Blair hired a “valet,” the significance of which requires some explanation. The most well-known Wodehouse stories are the ones starring Jeeves/Bertie Wooster. Bertie is a young man in his late twenties, independently wealthy after inheriting his late parents’ fortune. Jeeves is his exceptionally sagacious “gentleman’s personal gentleman,” or valet.

Like Bertie Wooster, Alan Blair’s parents are dead, and so the transient Blair is living with his aunt and uncle in New Jersey when we are introduced to him at the start of Wake Up, Sir!. Also, due to his readings, Blair talks a hell of a lot like Bertie. Blair’s newly minted valet just happens to be named Jeeves also, and Ames’ Jeeves is fully aware of and also annoyed by the obvious association to Wodehouse. He’s annoyed because many people refuse to take him seriously. Blair soon realizes that his Jeeves is upset with this whole “Wodehouse business,” so he makes sure never to mention it (although it curiously doesn’t stop Blair from mimicking the linguistic habits of one Bertie Wooster!).

The first thing the reader of Wake Up, Sir! is struck by – if he is familiar with Wodehouse – is Ames’ straight up replication of Wodehouse (more specifically, the Bertie Wooster character). Imitate the inimitable at your own peril. For instance, Blair refers to his aunt as “the relative” and “the old flesh and blood” (later shortened to “the old f. and b.” just as Wodehouse would have done, for no apparent reason other than to be ridiculous). Jeeves “endeavors to give satisfaction,” is made up of 90 percent water and “sees all.” Together, the two “biff along silently.” And this is just a small sample; the novel is riddled with Wodehouseisms of every description.

Other than me, the Wodehouse snobs have yet to weigh in, but I should say straight out I think Ames has done an admirable job here, particularly given the inherent difficulty of trying to duplicate an already revered style.

Like Bertie, Blair is garrulous, glib and insecure, while Jeeves is terse and composed. But where Wodehouse’s Jeeves constantly plots to bail his master out of trouble, Ames’ Jeeves exists mostly in the background and serves almost exclusively as a prop for the eccentric Blair to toss his peculiar thoughts at. (At one point, a pixilated Blair engages in an imaginary conversation with Jeeves, a conversation that reads exactly like his actual conversations with Jeeves). A writer, Blair (or is it Ames?) has some interesting/comical theories on life. For example, he believes most short men are homosexual as a result of not being able to attract women but then wonders why midgets are so “swaggeringly heterosexual.” He asks a sculptor friend if one would label a sculpture of one’s self a “self-sculpture”?

Indeed, Blair’s socially awkward commentary serves as the comic thrust of the novel; it is sometimes inventive, sometimes clichéd, sometimes humorous, sometimes not. I won’t repeat the jokes - you’ll have to read the book and determine for yourself their quality. Ames’ reading of the novel at KGB somehow livened up the narrative, and he had his audience laughing hysterically at times. His intonation and faux-elitist accent made the dialogue much more amusing. I don’t know if it was his natural voice or a complete affectation but I can see why Ames has a solid reputation as a performer.

As I eagerly perused the opening pages, my first question was this: given all the similarities to Wodehouse, how would it be possible for non-Wodehouse readers to fully appreciate – or appreciate at all - the work? But the enthusiastic crowd at the KGB bar, most of whom I would bet don’t really know Wodehouse, seemed to like it just fine. I spoke with one satisfied listener who had never read Wodehouse (or any of Wake Up, Sir!) and he actually interpreted the banter between Blair and Jeeves as a parody of Wodehouse and the English upper-crust. It made me feel like a man who, chasing rainbows, has had one of them suddenly turn and bite him in the leg.

Wake Up, Sir! is more than just a Wodehouse imitation. As the story progresses, the narrative strays slightly from the Wodehouse style and returns to many of Ames’ traditional themes: sex, paranoia and self-absorption to name a few. Things take a “serious” turn on page 29, a temptation to which Wodehouse never yielded. So the work is a strange, often entertaining, though sometimes tedious combination of various elements. The fusion is odd partly because Wodehouse’s fiction stands out for having never dealt with sex in any direct fashion. What Wodehouse avoided like the bubonic plague, Ames embraces wholeheartedly: the obscene. The word “fuck” does not appear until page 51 but it signals a slight departure from the light, Wodehouse form that dominates the opening. Still, Ames deserves much credit for describing sex from Blair's perspective - one could imagine Wodehouse's Bertie Wooster describing sex in the same way, had he ever done so. Blair is a modernist’s version of Bertie.

The real difference between Wake Up, Sir! and a typical Wodehouse novel is that the emotional, physical and psychological problems of Wodehouse's characters are glossed over and only laughed at. If a Wodehouse character is brooding over a lost love or creating drama over some alleged issue, he is encouraged to stop being such an ass, to throw his chest out and to refrain from being so self-obsessed. Wodehouse’s message: lighten up. Everyone has problems, so stop boring the rest of us with yours. Ames, on the other hand, celebrates self-indulgence and with Alan Blair and the other characters, that’s exactly what the reader is confronted with. Blair spends much of the book whining about his dipsomania and sexually perverted thoughts. His friend Alan Trinkle never ceases to shut up about how he can’t get laid. Admittedly, some of the horrors Blair has to confront are a bit thick (the thickest involving an untimely case of crabs) but they don’t warrant the hysteria and dwelling over which Ames devotes to them.

There are many things one could quarrel with in the novel. I could have used much less of the recovering alcoholic 12-step (or is it 10-step?) program babble that Ames dumps on the reader’s doorstep. We get a goodish amount of boilerplate sap like ‘the crave for alcohol being merely the crave for love’. Also, much of the narrative features Blair’s reflections on Jews. This becomes heavy handed and excessive. I don’t quite understand why so many Jewish writers insist on, not only specifically identifying themselves as Jews, but on reinforcing many of the negative stereotypes associated with the religion (or is it a race now?). For instance, Blair wonders why there is no Jewish fast food. Instead of wise sayings, Jewish fortune cookies could contain stock tips, he says. And then we evaluate the theory that Jews have more constipation problems than most because throughout history they’ve been forced to ‘hold it in’ while being confined in cellars. Can’t we all just be atheists and move on? I don’t find this sort of thing offensive, but I don’t find it particularly interesting either.