Where had the Pet Shop Boys been all my life? Honestly, everywhere. I remember being 9 years old, listening to “What Have I Done to Deserve This?” on my Sony Dream Machine clock radio while leafing through X-Men comics. At 20, my bandmate thought the cover of the new Pet Shop Boys album, “Nightlife,” looked cool enough to suggest that we pose for our own record sleeve on the D.C. Metro. In my mid-20s, I loved a girl who loved “West End Girls.” Across my 30s, I danced to the music of the Pet Shop Boys at nightclubs, at weddings, at karaoke, at birthday parties, at karaoke birthday parties — the kinds of places where everyone is happy. All of this, and I never got fully onboard. Never bought a record. Never called myself a fan. I was totally fine with allowing the Pet Shop Boys to appear in my life this way, like perfect weather or a tax refund.