The balance of power is wack

Stupid bracelet.

Stupid bracelet.

Heard any good Power Balance jokes lately?

A few days after the Sacramento Kings announced that everyone’s favorite Gas Pump in Natomas would soon be christened Power Balance Pavilion, I took to and bought my own Power Balance bracelet. It’s black, made of silicone and cost $4.95. On the packaging were promises that my athletic performance would reach the “next level”—wherever that is.

But the problem was that whenever I wore my new bracelet, everyone kept asking if I was wearing a woman’s wristwatch.

I’ll agree it looks pretty silly. And I was embarrassed. Power Balance, though it boasts patented “hologram” technology, is basically plastic and a couple stickers that change colors. Cheap junk. Something 6-year-olds in Granite Bay would start wearing to school, like trendy slap bracelets, only to have their first-grade teacher confiscate them.

Power Balance’s website actually never promises any benefit for wearing its products. The company, which recently faced a class-action lawsuit, proffers vague testimonials as to the bracelet’s magical powers but warns that there’s “no assurance [they] can work for everyone.”

But it also says strange things. Like its trademark hologram technology “is designed to last indefinitely.” Like Obi-Wan Kenobi or something. Does this mean that, when everyone throws their once in-demand bracelets to the trash, Power Balance will be on the hook for a hologram stewardship recycling program?

Still, if push comes to shove and you hate your bracelet, just send it back within 30 days and Power Balance offers a full-money-back guarantee. If only Kings tickets came with such a pledge.

Anyway, my goal was to wear a Power Balance bracelet for a week and see what happened. It was a damn crummy week.

For starters, I had been dominating pingpong at SN&R headquarters—until I slipped one of those holograms on my wrist, whereupon I embarked on a losing streak unprecedented in office competition.

There’s more: I’d tweaked my ankle playing basketball (the day before sporting my new plastic bangle, mind you), but the holograms nary offered any ibuprofen-esque relief. In fact, my foot felt worse every day I wore the bracelet. I could hardly stand on two feet.

Los Angeles Lakers Lamar Odom has gone on the record saying that his bracelet helps him “perform at [his] peak day in and day out,” but Odom—who often was busted for marijuana use early in his career—is probably just reaping the benefits of not getting high before games.

I gladly removed mine a few days ago. It cost me a funky ankle, a fat lip, one bad hangover and $1,500 in veterinarian bills. Stupid bracelet.