I wanted to take the time to plug a friend and outstanding writer’s new graphic novel: “Hell House: The Awakening.”  Written by Ryan Dixon and Chad Feehan, “Hell House” is an absorbing and intriguing read, centering around the question “What if the Rapture is real?”

The book’s protagonist is an atheist in a Christian private school who just can’t get no respect. He is the laughing stock of his community for his unwillingness to believe in the tenants of the Bible, specifically the Rapture. Things come to a head at a school function when he enters his academy’s official Hell House. A real thing put together by evangelical Christians, the Hell House in the novel is actually less horrifying than the real ones. This is an impressive feat as, once inside, the Rapture  happens and those non-believers left behind are immediately attacked by ravenous zombie-demons. Our hero and his fellow skeptics now have to fight their way through the Hell House and answer the world’s most important question: what comes next?

Art-wise the best part of the book are the demons, each drool spittle and bloody hang lovingly rendered by Tsubasa Yozora. The art skews towards a definite anime/manga style, so may not appeal to everyone.

The book ends on the cusp of a literal new world order, and I cannot wait to see how Ryan and Chad explore their apocalyptic universe further; “Hell House” is out September from Viper Comics.

In time for the release of what seems like the worst female-centric movie ever made, comes a ray of hope from the past: the entire animated series of Daria.

Daria was sarcasm personified. She’s the person everyone wishes they were: the girl with the witty comebacks, summoned instantly for any situation. She didn’t care about petty things, she didn’t care about pretty things–most of the time she just didn’t care. But she was funny, savagely so. And smart. And unafraid. And for six glorious years, she influenced an entire generation of girls.

I spent the formative years of my life watching her, buying anything remotely tied to her, dressing like her for Halloween and costume parties. She was me; in a sea of Brittneys and Fashion Clubs she spoke to us girls who wanted more. We were the girls who talked to adults like equals. We were the girls who didn’t understand why it was SO important to attract the attention of the boy-of-the-month. We’re the girls who actually liked reading books, especially books that made grown-ups uncomfortable. We’re the girls who refused to adhere to standards, normal or double, because that’s not who were were. We’re the girls with band-aids on our knees, pulling our dresses over our heads because they’re hot and silly and we want to play in the mud.

Generation Daria is older now. We’re among the first wave of women to outnumber men in college. We’re climbing our way into the ranks of male-dominated fields, along with our older sisters, winning attention and accolades and praise.

At the same time, we have to do more. There is a whole generation of girls now growing up with Bella, not Daria; waiting for their Vampire to come instead of realizing that finding Mr. Toothy Charming is not important; who are told their only wish is to aspire to the ranks of that cult of Jimmy Choo, the girls from Sex and the City. They have no Daria; they have no My So-Called Life, or Powerpuff Girls, or Alex Mack, or Scully, or Alias, or any inkling that women are allowed to be just as complex as men. The “heroines” of our little sisters fail the Bechdel test every time, and unless we can show them life does not revolve around hollow romance and lip-gloss, we’ll have failed them too.

They need a Daria, and if they can’t get a new one, hopefully watching the old one will suffice.