Eva Amurri — Susan Sarandon’s daughter — makes an appearance at the Out 100 awards in NYC.

She’s gone from an awkward teen to the spitting image of her mother!

The perpetually redheaded model/socialite/Cisco Adler bedmate was ready for a change of pace, I guess.

This actually doesn’t look bad, but I think she’s hotter as a redhead.

I don’t even know why.

Just because it’s been in my head all night, and now it has to be in yours, too.

People should really do obnoxious covers of this song more often.

Has anyone on American Idol ever done it? God, that would be so great.

I’d also like to see a country cover, please.

That bitch on The View, baby boy, blah blah blah blah, born.

Baby is healthy.

Sadly, so is Elizabeth.

She’s fucking calling into the show on Monday to announce the baby’s name.

Seriously?

The kid is less than a day old and you’re already exploiting him?

Elizabeth, when you die, I hope this kid sells fucking tickets for people to come and deface your corpse and sits nearby, watching, counting his money and whispering “So how does this make you feel, Mom?”

And you know what else?

I hope Rosie O’Donnell is the first in line.

The Broadway stagehands went on strike on Saturday, shutting down more than two dozen plays and musicals.

The stagehands and Broadway producers have been in negotiations for more than three months. Much of their disagreements involve work rules and staffing requirements, particularly rules governing the expensive process of loading in and setting up a show. The producers want more flexibility in hiring; the stagehands don’t want to give up what they say are hard-won benefits without something in return.

I guess watching the writers strike pushed them to make their move.

Hmm.

No TV.

No movies.

No theater.

You know who wins here?

Bloggers!

I know, I know. I was shocked, too. I took a quick glance at this picture, and I thought it was a long, sleek, tight-fitting dress, and I was like, “Wow, Sharon! Very classic! Very chic! I take it all back — you have an ounce of fashion sense in that cropped little head.”

And then I realized it was a Spandex pantsuit.

She looks like she’s about to run the New York marathon in heels.

Jesus, Sharon. Why are you so weird?

Like, do I focus on the penis or the joint here?

I just don’t know, you guys.

My life is so hard.

Well, semi-hard.

Kind of like Pauly Shore.

(I guess I made my decision.)

There’s really no better way to do this than to copy/paste an excerpt from the interview Blender magazine did with her.

She sighs and plops down on the couch. She lights a cigarette and turns a drowsy gaze toward Blender; she’s ready to talk. We start by asking if she’ll be recording the follow-up to Back to Black anytime soon.

“Yeah, we’ve got a couple of more bits … I’m writing … ” she mumbles. “On the whole … ” She trails off.

Um … Back to Black was such a personal record — the songs were clearly about your relationship with Blake. Are you still writing confessionals?

“I’m still writing about the dynamics of being in a relationship … Would you like some wine?” she asks, fetching two glasses and beginning to pour. “I believe in relationships,” she continues, “whether it’s your grandmother or your dog … ”

Now her words are slurred, her eyelids drooping. Her head wobbles into a nod. She falls asleep for a second, wakes with a start, mutters and drops off again. The smoldering cigarette in her left hand falls to the floor.

“Oh, God, what is wrong with me?” she asks, coming to. “There’s something wrong with me … ”

We inquire about her brief rehab stint in August. What was it like there?

“You go in and you’re just sat down. They looked at me and said, ‘You’re an alcoholic.’”

And are you?

“No … I don’t know.”

Are you clean these days?

“I take, like, anti- … I take stuff for my depression. Prescriptive stuff. But I don’t take it.”

And you don’t do any other drugs?

“I don’t have time.”

You don’t have time?

“I’m a really big drinker,” she says in response. “I used to be there before the pub opened, banging on the door.”

She nods off again.

Oh, Amy.

Get some help, baby.