There's a tradition in journalism, going back at least to Mark Twain, of crusty men of blue-collar extraction like Pete Hamill or the late Mike Royko who, for a fee, will let you know what The Common Man (i.e., them) thinks about the issues of the day.
These days the prime exemplar is probably Michael Moore, the writer, filmmaker and TV troublemaker, scion of an auto working family from Flint, Mich. There's a scene in Moore's useful documentary The Big One where he jeers at his apparently yuppie audience for buying Third World folk art, handmade handbags from Guatemala and whatnot. They laugh, but uneasily, as if they're just realizing that he's making fun of them, not Jesse Helms or Bill Gates. Moore has suggested in print that middle-class folks who want to make contact with the American working class should go line dancing.