Atlantic City is the east coast gambling nirvana of the United States. Enter it by night and it assaults you with a collection of psychedelic living monoliths and temples, employing sufficient energy to supply a third world country, and all for the edification of the deities of excess.

If you've never been to Vegas, then settle for this place, and if you've been to both, then at least be comforted that after you've spent most of your money, you can walk on the city's boardwalk and allow the Atlantic sea breezes to splash some vital refreshing spray into your face. This is something that the stifling Nevada desert can't offer, but then again the Grand Canyon isn't on the doorstep either, but if you plan on drowning your sorrows, the Atlantic Ocean is a better bet.

Almost all of the gambling halls are interconnected. That's important because it keeps the punters in enclosed spaces, all with the enticing razzmatazz of cabaret, restaurants, fast food and above all - slot machines. Some will have themes, Egyptian, Roman, Wild West, each a magical cavalcade of extravaganza, and all designed to grab your greenback.

So what's it like to enter one of these giant gambling emporiums? Well, you'll be struck initially by the people. There are thousands of them from just about every state and country. Some will be dressed in their best finery, some will appear slovenly and careworn; glamour seeps from nubile females and model aspirants, and their escorts are dressed in Hugo Boss black satin shirts, whose bling is king and with brogues that would put Saville Row to shame.

They'll even swagger with just a hint of menace and aloofness. Well, it's not exactly Rick's Bar from Casablanca, but why not pretend? George Raft and Humphrey Bogart they are not, but Baltimore's not that far away, so maybe they've been watching "The Wire".

Missed them? No problems. All of human life is here, producing an anthropological paradise. There is Mr and Mrs Middle America, just flown in from Nebraska, camera, baseball cap and faded trousers, sitting bemused and overawed. Then there are the regulars. You can spot them a mile off, reclining confidently and feeding the slots as nonchalantly as a zoo-keeper feeds fish to a seal. Next are the day trippers, probably driven in from some nearby town, with more money than sense and not much style.

The slots go on forever, row after row after row. And each with a captive incumbent . Yes this is what gambling Atlantic City style is all about.

Smoking may be banned in the bars (of which there are plenty) but it's not banned on many areas of the floor. People need their fix when they are playing so let them have it. There's a special exemption in the rules for them.

It's a Disneyland where the big kids frolic. Where the natural light of day doesn't get a look in. Time is a but a concept, and if the sun rises and sets, it's in another world and of no consequence.

The boardwalk is the road to reality and may just restore the sanity.

Learn more about this author, Bar De Ness.
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