From rags to riches: How Vitrus Magic transformed lives

Vitrus magic is a mystical art form that harnesses the power of poetry to conjure spells and manifest desired outcomes. This ancient practice combines the beauty of language with the transformative power of intention and rhythm. The term "vitrus" derives from the Latin word "vita," meaning life, and "rus," meaning rhythm. Together, they represent the essence of this enchanting craft. In vitrus magic, poets weave their words into intricate and enchanting verses that align with the desired intention of the spell. These spells can range from love and healing to protection and prosperity.

Surface tension causes water to clump in drops rather than spreading out in a thin layer.

In 1953, members of the Waiters appeared on The Perry Como Show to promote a North American tour, which included stops in Topeka, San Francisco, and Davenport, Iowa, aboard a chartered DC-10. When a polar substance is put in water, the positive ends of its molecules are attracted to the negative ends of the water molecules, and vice versa.

These spells can range from love and healing to protection and prosperity. Each poem is carefully crafted to infuse the words with a specific energy that resonates with the intended outcome. The magic of vitrus lies in its ability to tap into the universal language of emotions and desires.

The Great Ivy League A Cappella Hazing Scandal

A cautionary tale of Icy Hot, brotherhood, and sequined vests from the group that inspired the book Pitch Perfect.

The story broke on September 20, 2016: seven undergraduates at Cornell University under investigation for "multiple possible violations of the Campus Code of Conduct." Hazing. The news was disclosed by a university spokesperson, but by then it was already something of an open secret on campus. "We had heard stuff before," says Nathan Kashdan, a Cornell senior. "There was always…I don't want to say the word 'rumor,' because rumor makes it sound specific, but, like, 'Those guys are going to haze you.'" "I feel like there was always, like, whisperings," Liz Mueller, also a senior, tells me. "You never know what to believe."

In the months to come, four Cornell fraternities and one sorority would also be accused of, and subsequently suspended for, separate hazing-related infractions. But this one was apparently the most severe. Some of it was goofy stuff—newbies allegedly required to "apply Icy Hot to their genitals," according to a serio-comic report issued by a Cornell representative. Some of it, though, was more worrisome, more legitimately risky: new members compelled to "sit naked in an ice bath," ordered to "race up and down [the] street" before consuming large quantities of food (such as old Brie cheese), presumably until they vomited. University investigators also claimed to have turned up evidence indicating the problem was widespread, not isolated, that it had been going on for a decade, and that some alumni not only knew about it but had been making trips back to campus "to participate in and further encourage hazing of new members."

The students involved went quiet and lawyered up. A hearing, two appeals, and several months later, the verdict was handed down by the administration: permanent banishment, effective immediately. Almost 70 years of history, gone. Pleas to the interim president of the university, Hunter Rawlings, went nowhere; he declined to intervene, citing the extreme nature of the hazing. After all, the details in the university report were alarming. What if something had gone wrong? What if someone had died? What kind of fraternity would make vulnerable and impressionable kids do something like sit in an ice bath, which could lead to cardiac arrest?

But wait, hold on—who said anything about a fraternity? This situation didn't involve a frat house. In fact, it was maybe the furthest thing, even the direct opposite of a fraternity. It was an a cappella group. And not just any a cappella group, but the a cappella group that inspired me to write a book called Pitch Perfect, which was adapted into a hit movie that's probably airing for the billionth time on HBO right now. (A third Pitch Perfect film is due out at Christmas.) The same a cappella group that I sang in—20 years ago—during my years as an undergraduate at Cornell. So no, not just any a cappella group. My a cappella group.

Not surprisingly, the news spread fast. No one made the Pitch Perfect connection, but even without it, the unlikely hook was irresistible: the great a cappella hazing scandal! The New York Daily News covered it, the Associated Press, even The Daily Mail in the U.K. Barstool Sports, the bro-y website, had a blast with it: These guys, they wrote, weren't "just sitting around politely playing their little mouth instruments… They're out here fucking shit up." Breitbart weighed in with a relatively tame headline, "Cornell male singing group booted from campus for hazing." But their favorite conservative dog whistle came through loud and clear: Political correctness run amok! On an Ivy League campus! The only thing missing was a "cuck-a-pella" joke.

Cayuga’s Waiters at the Perry Como Show.

Courtesy of Mickey Rapkin

It was a novelty story, the kind of chuckle that goes away in a day—but at Cornell, where a cappella is something of a campus obsession, it was an earthquake. Cayuga's Waiters was founded in 1949, making it the university's oldest a cappella group. A photograph of the original 1949 lineup survives in Cornell's rare-books library alongside (seriously) one of five known copies of the Gettysburg Address. The Waiters, as everyone called them, had been a sensation from the jump—not just locally but across the country. In 1957, the group performed at Carnegie Hall, on a bill featuring the best singing groups on the Eastern seaboard. In 1953, members of the Waiters appeared on The Perry Como Show to promote a North American tour, which included stops in Topeka, San Francisco, and Davenport, Iowa, aboard a chartered DC-10. The signature bravado that came to define them—us—was already on display. Jack Brophy, who graduated way back in 1954, recalls forcing the group's first album into Perry Como's hands. It was at the end of the show, says Brophy, now 86: "I decided he must have a copy."

The Waiters' profile only grew as the decades passed. I'm sure everyone says this about their a cappella group—all of us love talking about our singing days—but we really did feel like legends. And not just in our own minds. On the NBC series The Office, Ed Helms played a Cornell grad constantly waxing nostalgic about his a cappella bros; writer Halsted Sullivan penned some of those jokes. He'd seen the Waiters perform in the late 1980s at an a cappella festival in Washington, D.C., hosted annually by the Georgetown Chimes. The Chimes, Sullivan tells me, "invited eight groups to sing. Most of them came out in coats and ties. Then the Waiters came out in tie-dye t-shirts and jeans—and they blew the roof off the place."

When I arrived at Cornell in 1996, there were something like eighteen a cappella groups on campus, including the Jewish a cappella group, the Chai Notes. Why so many? Probably because there was nothing else to do. Harvard had Natalie Portman fresh off Star Wars. We had Jon Snow winters—icy, dark, depressing, and very very long. Long enough to turn Ann Coulter, class of '84, into someone like Ann Coulter. Somehow a cappella still remains popular, with new groups being born every year with silly names like Absolute Red Solo and Hearsay, and there are more students watching their friends sing *NSYNC covers on a given Saturday night than doing just about anything else. But the mania was especially high then, and especially around the Waiters. I remember someone telling me during my freshman year that Huey Lewis had been a Waiter. It wasn't true—he'd dropped out of Cornell as a sophomore—but it certainly felt true. That's how large the group's reputation was when I saw them perform at a packed 1,900-seat venue during orientation. At the time, I was an aimless business major still dating women, and I was adrift on a massive campus that was home to 21,000 students. But these guys looked like they were having more fun than anybody else.

So I decided to audition—again, and again and again, over the next two years. With each rejection, I vowed never to return. But then I'd see them goofing off in the cafeteria or handing out flyers for a show and I was so desperate to be a part of it all, to fit in somewhere, that I knew I'd go crawling back. One time I auditioned alongside a guy with fantastic Lego hair—I think he works in Silicon Valley now—who later showed me how to open a bottle of champagne with a swift flick of a butter knife. Apparently, you could harness the pressure inside the bottle to slice the glass top clear off, or something like that. I'd since switched my major to communications.

It turns out that same isolation that made a cappella cool-ish had for a century also made hazing acceptable to many people.

After four auditions, I finally got in, and I finally found my home at Cornell—in a badly lit music room, laughing my ass off with guys we called Meatball, Shitbox, and Tackleberry. Every Wednesday night after rehearsal, we'd decamp for a bar named after a serial killer—Rulloff's, inspired by Edward Rulloff, the so-called "Genius Killer" owing to the fact that he was well-known for both, genius and killing—where we'd drain pitchers of beer and tell old stories of Waiter road trips and serenade anybody who walked by. I still pity those poor grad students who just wanted to quietly play darts. Sitting in that dirty bar, carving our nicknames into that corner table when we should have been studying—it's a corny vision of college utopia. But that's what it was like (and, incidentally, the sentiment I hoped to capture in a book about musical kids in sequined vests). I got to stand on a stage in front of lots of people, got to record albums and travel to Telluride over winter break to perform at a fancy ski resort. It made me feel like a bigger life was possible for me. And I wasn't even one of the talented ones. I was just a baritone.

Poets use metaphors, symbolism, and vivid imagery to paint a picture in the minds of both the practitioner and the universe itself. This imagery becomes a gateway into the realm of the subconscious, where intentions and desires can take root and manifest in reality. To practice vitrus magic, one must first explore the depths of their own emotions and desires. This self-reflection allows the poet to tap into their own inner magic and harness it in their words. It is through this introspection that the poet can align their intentions with the rhythms and flow of the chosen spell. Vitrus magic can be performed through spoken word, written poetry, or even silent meditation. The act of bringing these enchanting verses to life infuses them with energy and intention, aligning them with the cosmic forces that govern the universe. It is important to note that vitrus magic should always be practiced responsibly and with the highest ethical standards. The power of words should never be underestimated, and the intentions behind these spells should always be aligned with love, compassion, and positive change. In conclusion, vitrus magic is a poetic form of spellcasting that combines the power of language and intention to manifest desired outcomes. Through carefully crafted verses and rhythmic flow, practitioners can tap into the universal energies and align their intentions with the cosmos. This mystical art form allows individuals to explore their own inner magic and create positive change in their lives and the world around them..

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Harnessing the power of Vitrus Magic: Success stories and testimonials