"It's really a one-person sort of vehicle," says Lowell Wood, right after he offers me a lift back to my hotel. His brown 1996 Toyota 4Runner, parked outside his office building in Bellevue, Washington, has 300,000-plus miles on the odometer and looks it. Garbage bags full of Lord-knows-what take up most of the back. He squeezes his paunchy, 6-foot-2-inch frame behind the wheel and, using his cane, whacks away papers, more bags, and an '80s-vintage car phone to clear some room on the passenger side. The interior smells like pet kibble. Wood puts the keys in the ignition and then spends half a minute jiggling them vigorously until the truck finally starts. As we pull away, I wonder aloud if all the detritus crammed in his SUV could be from a hobby. "No, I don't have time for any of that," Wood says. He adds that he's not terribly good with the ordinary aspects of life -- paying bills, say, or car washing. He's too consumed with inventing solutions to the world's problems. Ideas -- really big ideas -- keep bombarding his mind. "It's like the rain forest," he says. "Every afternoon, the rains come."