My most vivid memory of robins is of a flock who would annually appear to get plastered on the rotting pyracanthra (sp?) berries in front of my parents' house. They would fly around in wild swoops and dives, chirping madly, and occasionally they would take unsteady aim at the living room, only to loudly bonk their heads on the picture window that lay between them and their goal. The birds seemed to survive their head-on collisions with the window, and it was a hoot to watch them.

Happened every single year.

Elmer.