Oh man, now I have to explain what a dumbass I am.
I actually did the right thing when I realized BM had sent my tickets to the wrong address (which I gave them - it was MY error NOT theirs.)
I have two addresses, 1) my physical address that FedEx and UPS delivers to, and 2) my P.O. box which the postal service delivers to. Either one will not deliver to the other.
When I got the email last week that BM had sent my Burning Man tickets, I realized I had a brainfart when i gave them my mailing address. For some reason I gave them my physical address, (which by the way BM received from me as an address change and accordingly DID send to the address I had changed to, like they were suppose to.)
But when I realized it was going to go instead to the post office, I knew that when I had done that in the past, the post office returns it to sender as "undeliverable", even though I have a P.O. box under the same name.
And this is where my attempted humor in my posting comes in: I live in a rural town in central, NV of which the description "staunch conservatism" doesn't even come close to describing this place.
Making a mistake like this is something that, if you can catch it soon enough before the delivery arrives at the post office AND you give them a heads-up that it is coming, AND you can come across as humble as possible and convey the sentiment (with your tail between your legs) that you sincerely appreciate everything they have ever done for you and that postal clerks are God's gift to the human race, THEN you just might get lucky and not have to email Triloblyte or whoever that your tickets are being returned to BM because you screwed up.
NOW, with all that said... the lesson that can be learned from this, as well as provide a helpful tip to the next unlucky dumbass burner that repeats my mistake, is that there are 2 things you might do:
1. Don't tell them the tickets are Burning Man tickets because, (well I don't even need to explain that), tell them they're airline tickets, and
2. Don't let the postal clerk know that you are a burner unless you are pretty certain that they are sympathetic to the misfortunes of stereotyped communist hippie pinkos or the clerk is a burner her or himself. In my town I can count the burners on one finger.
The call from the post office when the tickets came in really did happen as described. The name of the postal clerk was changed to protect the innocent, and boy was I relieved when her sweet little voice told me my plane tickets had come in. Yes, there really is something good to be said about living out here in Fuck Me, NV.
I'm not burnt, just lightly toasted.