The Overdog has been nurtured in the plushy pet-shop of privilege his entire life. Everything he does is wonderful, because, after all, it's him doing it! Center of the universe, it's fitting that he believes he should be the central focal point of the lit-world. His life has been a series of trying to find a place of reality in a world which birthed him as a success, no further struggle necessary. What does he want to do with his life? Maybe be an Episcopal priest-- that would only further emphasize his sense of unreality. A drug addict? He tries it, but finds endless slobbering detox self-examinations to be boring. Become, like his father or uncle or granddad, a banker? In his stunted babied mentality (he's not much different from our other opponent, you see) he doesn't qualify. "Dad" can only glance at the fop-haired bundle of entitlement with disappointment and consternation, and shake his head, and blame the mother and butlers and maids and nannies, as he turns the investment pages of his newspaper.
"I know! I know!" the fop at last decides. He wants to be a writer. He practices putting strings of goo-goo baby words together about the important things in his life, like Dad's shaving kit and toothbrush, or the chilling presence of winter storms outside their cozy Connecticut mansion. Dad continues turning the pages of his newspaper while our young goo-goo baby writer tentatively approaches this god of sternness. He knows that Dad, like a god, will grant him everything. Ask and you shall receive! Always has it been this way. Ever thus will it always be. (Now we see why the goo-goo baby young Overdog couldn't be an Episcopal priest. How to worship another when his true god is every evening before him reading the newspaper?)
The wheels are greased. Lit people of privilege are enlisted to enable the young man to rise; upper-class WASPy old dudes running fake-gritty publications provide mentoring, access, and hype. Early ridiculous stories appear in renowned glossy Manhattan magazines. Splashes of publicity everyplace. Grants of philanthropic money aid the illusion the rich kid is "struggling" his way to the place in society he's occupied from the beginning-- the game designed to fool not the public, but him. He sits on awards panels (this eternal child who knows NOTHING of the realities of being a writer) determining which writers receive aid-- invariably his Ivy League buddies. Black-tie receptions every week. The project is going along smoothly. Our Overdog has ARRIVED. Even Dad turning pages in his armchair is momentarily happy.
Then, in the world, an irritating buzz. The blowing of whistles. A series of exposes' and complaints-- aimed at him. Him! Strange raggedy people holding signs which say, "ULA." This is not supposed to be part of his comfy picture of privileged reality! He's supposed to receive everything, as he always has. No one is supposed to say anything.
His attempts at self-justification are disastrous-- there is no justification for someone who knows nothing about his own world and time to be considered a leading writer. So he pouts in his armchair, on his exclusive island, wearing Dad's expression of disappointment and consternation.