One of my recent reads was a magazine called Quiet Flight, which documents in gory detail electrically powered radio control airplanes.  Battery technology is at the point now where it is possible to build “short hop” electric planes.  The largest motor available is one horsepower, which should be enough to loft a payload.

A beer delivered by gas powered airplane would be a pretty sticky mess, as well as being hot, so we agree that this is why the idea never took off.  Electrics are different; there’s no sticky mess, no heat, and it might even be possible to build a flying fridge.  The average beer vendor market is probably no more than a 1000 foot radius.  This is within most circular probabilities of error.

The essence of this idea is circulated to a number of ad agencies with beverage accounts, and one of them likes one part of one idea: that of having an electric helicopter lifting out of the back of an SUV and dropping a pair of cold ones on Mr. Stud and his knockout girlfriend.  He is strolling down the beach in his tights, she is playing beach ball with her lady friend, and he dials in a beer drop with his cell phone just as he gets her attention.  So far so good.

A number of difficulties appear rather quickly: the director doesn’t seem to appreciate the hazards associated with RC helicopters.  The novice pilot usually loses the chopper in about two seconds.  It’s a good idea to be far enough away that it doesn’t carve you up in the process.

Initially, there is some participation with the high end SUV OEMs.  The one we chose was made in an area of the world know for beer, sausage, collard greens, and black eyed peas, but they rethink this situation after realizing what we are going to do to their roof.  Instead, we go with a 4x4 extended cab pickup with a special clamshell camper top.  The whole thing is vaguely colored to look like a Marine landing craft.

Then there is the matter of flying a chopper off the back of a truck in the wind conditions normally associated with a beach, and this isn’t helped by the director thinking that a little wavy grass adds to the effect.  The sand blown up into the rotor assembly jams the controls, so this problem takes care of itself.  The only other thing moving in the background is the seagulls.

The actors revolt when they realize that the chopper is supposed to hover so close to them that the male plucks the beers from a holder.  The next idea is having them dangling from a bungee cord so that someone catches them to drink them, but it still puts the chopper too close to the actors, not to mention the flight dynamics of having half the total weight bouncing around at the end of a string.

So the idea then is to drop the beers, but is our hero supposed to catch them on the way down?  A missed beer lands in the hot sand, and the combination of heat and grit didn’t seem to be too appealing. So we make a “bomb”, a container out of foam that acted as both an insulator and shock absorber. The bomb is dropped from the chopper, and the actor pops it apart to extract two cold ones.

The beer company is, at first, noncommittal. The more they think about it, though, the more concerned they are with the idea that Bubba might not quite understand how to order up a beer with his cell phone, and then they start to worry that someone might actually try implementing something like this. Beach hell is an RC helicopter pilot flying while guzzling six pack #2. The only thing he should be touching besides the beer is the babe.

The images coming out of all this are impressive, the concept seems great, but the bureaucratic second guessers are catching up with us. Someone points out that chopper beer could be easily dished out to minors; there is an issue of compliance. Whose beer is it when it’s in the truck and when it’s on it’s way. What, precisely, defines possession?

Perhaps we should shop this around to a soda company, or something. At some point the director turns around to me and screams something about “Will you get off it already?” which I interpret as meaning I’m fired. While I’m stewing over this and trying to find a way to exit without burning any bridges, the director starts musing aloud in front of nearly everyone about how car accounts appeal to more intelligent people.

The beer company guy looks like his real calling is negotiating peace in the Middle East. He looks at me with this expression that sums up to: Beer has been around ten thousand years, there are beer companies on every continent except Antarctica, it’s the most basic commodity you can imagine, they’re all trying to sell their stuff in America, and every time we step up to the plate we have to have a new story. Composing himself, he starts to chat with the director like he hadn’t heard a word: “You were telling me about some killer idea, where the guys are on the beach, and the babes are playing ball. . .it sounded good there. We’re doing it. Like NOW, brudda!”.